


Never Say Never

by L_Morgan



Series: The Never Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to rid himself of his obsession with Potter, Draco tries to put the past behind him and build a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to [Never Was and Never Will Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/634409/chapters/1148033). Special thanks to Jadis for her careful beta. All remaining errors are mine.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_   
_7:45 a.m., Dungeons, Draco Malfoy’s Private Room_

“Get up you lazy child! You’re late for breakfast! You’re going to miss it!”

Draco Malfoy groaned, and reached for the leg of the bedside table, tipping it just so his alarm clock would clatter noisily within reach. With fingers of lead, he managed to shut off the noisy thing before it started berating him again. Normally, Draco was always up before the alarm sounded; this morning, however, he hadn’t been to bed in the first place.

His entire body hurt, the cold of the dungeon floors having crept into his bones over night. His heart hurt, too, the coldness of Harry Potter having lodged itself there after Draco’s most short-sighted plan, ever, had blown up spectacularly in his face.

He had realized only too late that maybe he had handled things badly. That perhaps he had precipitated Harry’s quick withdrawal the night before or even the night before that. Maybe, just maybe, he’d been too afraid, if he were to admit it, of the well-deserved wrath of the boy who lived.

It’s true that after Harry had come out during an impromptu game of ‘Truth or Dare’ he’d followed Harry and Finnigan to the bar to watch, and, undoubtedly, to mock. He’d decided to use a glamour so that Harry wouldn’t see him first and to maybe fuck with Harry a bit. He really hadn’t thought about what he was going to do beyond getting Harry a shade tipsy and come up with some way to humiliate. It had occurred that maybe he could steal, if not share, a quick snog for good measure, though he’d planned to reveal himself once he was certain Harry would be good and embarrassed.

He’d never meant to actually fuck him.

He’d most certainly not gone there expecting to get fucked himself. And he had been, on so many levels.

In the space of a heartbeat, surrounded by rutting Muggles –the stench almost unbearable—Harry had stood before him, bound, yet completely unrepentant in his fear. Not only had he been asked to be freed, he’d also looked at Draco –really looked at him—and for a single moment, Draco let himself believe that Harry had really seen him for who he was and not for who he was pretending to be.

Draco pulled back, but did not release Harry’s hands. “You want to touch me?”

Harry’s brow furrowed, a stranger's countenance reflected in his lenses. “Yes.”

“But you don’t know me,” Draco pointed out.

“I know enough.”

Besides, hadn’t Harry intimated that Marco reminded him of him?

In that moment, all of Draco’s evil plans had been shattered. Something flared between them that Draco had never even imagined, and Draco had an impressive imagination.

Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Golden Boy. Up until his sixth birthday, Draco had wanted to be Harry Potter. He had hated him from seven to ten, once he realized that he’d never be as good as the innocent legend, only to desire nothing more, at age eleven, to be his friend –his best friend—a privilege that had gone, to all unlikely people, the Weasel. All of this before he’d even put the name with a face. The strange mix of envy, hate and love had been shellacked in a thick coat of jealousy and resentment their first three years at Hogwarts –what with Potter, still Potter then, beating him at every turn and being Dumbledore’s little pet. But, then, unexpectedly, Draco’s feelings changed once again sometime between Harry’s name bursting forth from the Goblet of Fire and his successful completion of the first task.

He thought back to Harry’s last words to him and cringed.

Badly didn’t even begin to cover it. ‘Fuck.’

If he’d only known that he never would have done what he’d done. But, then again, if he hadn’t done what he’d done, he’d have had no way of knowing. It was a vicious cycle.

Head aching, eyelids sitting heavy on irises, Draco pulled himself up slowly. He took a few shuffling steps, before glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced. Without the glamour, his skin was sallow, and the bruises that Harry had left on his neck were just visible above the collar of his shirt that was now all wrinkled from having been slept in.

Draco ran his hand up his neck absently, prodding at the bruises. Taking a deep breath he pressed the dark one at his clavicle, until he could feel the healing vessels burst beneath his fingers. He smiled, taking a moment to appreciate the new burst of color that would ensure the mark for another day, at the least.

Just as he started to do something with his hair, he caught sight of the clock. Sighing, he, instead, grabbed one of his everyday school robes and a tie out of the wardrobe. As he shrugged on the robe, he grabbed his wand, cast a ‘reparo’ towards the broken glass near the door, and reversed Harry’s transfiguration. Sweeping his quill off of the floor and into his book bag, he cast one last disgusted look in the mirror before heading up to The Great Hall.

 

He stepped through the majestic doors, head high, ignoring the curious looks at his disheveled appearance. Although it had been his intention to head straight to his normal seat, he found himself, instead, at a halt, mouth open. There was a fifth table.

Situated between Slytherin and Gryffindor was an empty table –empty, that is, except for three giggling Hufflepuffs.

Pulling himself together, Draco marched to his seat without looking at Gryffindor.

“So why do the Hufflepuffs have another table?” he demanded as he slid in between Pansy and Blaise, reached over a plate that some sycophant had left him, and grabbed a piece of toast.

“What’s up with your hair?” Blaise hissed. “You look like hell.”

“Thank you, Zabini...” Draco pushed away the plate of congealed eggs and bacon. “...when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. Goyle,” Draco snapped, causing the smarter of his two childhood friends to jump, “why are those Hufflepuffs sitting at that table?”

“Uh...” Goyle swallowed what looked like three eggs and a side of bacon. “...uh, Dumbledore says that since it’s prohibited to sit at other house tables—”

“Prohibitive, you goon.” Pansy cast a warming spell over Draco’s plate and slid it back towards him. “Come, now, darling. Blaise is right. Perhaps you should eat something.”

Draco waved the toast in her face, before turning back to Goyle. “So, what’s this about the barmy old coot?”

“As part of the house unity effort,” Pansy interjected, “he created a Hogwarts Table, where students from any house can sit without being ridiculed –sort of like neutral territory.”

“Like that’s going to happen.” Draco snorted. “You can damn well be sure that you’ll never catch me there.” He chanced a glance over to Harry’s normal seat; it was empty and Draco let go of a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “In fact, he should have just unfurled another yellow banner. What a waste of space.”

Pansy nodded, her mouth thinning; it was quite unattractive really. “What’s wrong, Draco?” she asked, her voice pitched for their ears alone. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

Unable to stomach her cloying concern, Draco closed his eyes; besides, his head was splitting. Wondering if he had time to get a potion from Pomfrey before Ancient Runes, he stood up and straddled the bench. “I’m off,” he said.

Just as he swung his leg over, he caught a flash of black robes, with just a flare of red. Inhaling, he schooled his face to contempt and whirled around, fast.

Longbottom leapt back, dropping his books. “I—I –I’m sor –sorry, Malfoy,” he stuttered, sinking to the floor to gather his scattered things.

Draco barely heard the jeering of the Slytherins his heart was so loud in his chest. He’d been so sure it had been Harry; his stomach roiled, threatening to liberate his toast. He’d be damned if he was going to lose his breakfast in front of the entire school. Taking a calming breath, he reached down and pulled Longbottom to his feet by the scruff of his robes.

Tuning out Weasley’s angry shouts and the Mudblood’s clucking tones, Draco took yet another deep breath and exhaled on a count of six. “What is it, Longbottom?” he demanded. “If you were on your way to the Hufflepuff Annex...” He cast a meaningful look at the Hogwarts table. “...it’s over there.”

Longbottom looked down and bit his lip awkwardly and Draco remembered, suddenly, the day that this lump of a boy had lost him fifty points his first year. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he realized that Longbottom had asked him a question and was now expecting a response.

“What?” Malfoy sneered, trying to sound derisive, rather than addled.

“I was wondering...” Longbottom worried his lip. “...I was going to ask if you would have lunch –or maybe dinner— with me and perhaps look at my Potions essay.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Since Professor Dumbledore established...” He glanced over to where the three Hufflepuffs sat giggling and then back to the Slytherins’ trademark scowls. “Never mind.”

Draco opened his mouth, but then closed it when he felt more than saw Harry walk into the room and glance in their direction. He could feel Harry’s gaze on him just as surely as he’d felt his hands on him that night in his father’s flat. He suppressed a shudder.

“I just did so much better in Potions when you were my partner...” Even Longbottom looked surprised as the words kept pouring out of his mouth. “...I could help you with something in return–maybe—if you needed it. Maybe, for instance, if you needed a plant for a potion you wanted to brew I could grow it for you.” He flushed an unflattering shade of plum. “I’m pretty good with plants.”

Draco rested his forehead on the heel of his palm and concentrated on his pulse. “I’d rather attend classes naked than be caught dead at that table.”

“Oh.” Longbottom shuffled. “So, that's a ‘no’, then?”

Draco raised his head. Longbottom actually hadn’t been that in bad potions the other day, suggesting that part of the problem may have resided in Severus, himself, rather than his bumbling student.

Feeling disloyal to his head of house, Draco glanced over at Granger and, not for the first time, wondered why it was that the girl wonder only shared her talents with Harry and the Weasel. “Look,” he whispered, “I do study groups with some of the Slytherins.” He jerked his head over to Crabbe and Goyle. “You can attend those if you’d like; but under no circumstances will I ever sit over there like a flaming Hufflepuff. Do we understand one another?”

He’d tried so hard to sound menacing that he was completely taken aback by Longbotton’s shy smile.

“Gee.” Longbottom straightened, adding almost two inches to his height, and held out his hand. “Thank you, Malfoy.”

Exhaling loudly, Draco looked away pointedly. “I’m not your friend, Longbottom,” he reminded before turning his back and starting towards the door. Just there, he turned; he could just see Harry, staring, mouth open, out of the corner of his eye. “Crabbe and Goyle can tell you when and where.”

Longbottom’s hand fell slowly to his side and his smile, tremulous to begin with, vanished. “Okay...” he swallowed loudly. “...thanks –thanks, Malfoy. You –you won’t regret it.”

Already regretting it, Draco shook his head and headed to the infirmary.


	2. Chapter 2

12:07 p.m., the Great Hall (the same day)

Just when he thought that there was no way that lunch could be worse than breakfast, Draco looked up to find a tiny Gryffindor –a girl this time—standing behind Crabbe.

“Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, causing everyone, including Draco, to look over their shoulders. “My name is Madeline.”

Draco set there for a moment, not sure where this was going.

“It’s the little girl from the cranes,” Pansy hissed.

“Oh...” Draco selected his goblet, but then set it down without taking a drink.

“The Gryffindors are watching,” Blaise whispered. “Potter’s pretending that he’s not, but he is.”

Wondering exactly why Blaise felt it necessary to broadcast Harry’s every movement, as opposed to, say, the Weasel’s or Granger’s, Draco nodded. “How may I help you, my dear?”

“I was wondering, sir...” Madeline smiled prettily. “...if you could teach me how to make cranes.” She hesitated. “They were ever so lovely.”

‘Mudblood,’ Draco decided uncharitably.

“Please, sir.”

Wondering just how he’d become the keeper of lost Gryffindors, Draco frowned.

But, to her credit, Madeline didn’t waver.

‘Bloody, Gryffindors,’ Draco thought. “Do you know anything, whatsoever, about origami?”

Madeline shook her head.

Snatching the plate of toast from the center of the table, Draco transfigured it into a pile of parchment. Without so much as a glance for his housemates, he got up and marched, without apology, to the so-called Hogwarts Table, dodging the malevolent stares from the Gryffindors.

‘Harry’s eyes really did look like the killing curse when he was aroused,’ Draco reflected, unwilling to think about the last time he’d seen Harry’s eyes that same startling shade.

Madeline followed, chin set.

“In order for the charm to work, you must understand what it is that you’re trying to achieve,” said Draco. “Do you understand?”

Madeline nodded and Draco motioned for her to sit.

He, however, remained standing; a tiny bead of perspiration slid down his back, nestling at the base of his spine. “In order for your magic to create the crane,” he began, pitching his voice just loudly enough to be heard at the Gryffindor table, “you must know how to make the crane...you must know everything about it: every seam, every crease, every detail.”

“But why?” she asked, her eyes the color of a summer’s sky.

Draco swallowed a sigh. “Because you must understand it in order to make it happen –and that goes for anything, not just cranes.”

Madeline nodded.

For the next fifteen minutes, Draco folded cranes, the simple act of folding steadying his nerves. The tiny creatures lay there, lifeless, alongside an unused placemat.

“But why won’t they fly?” Madeline asked, her tone not that different from any other impatient Gryffindor that he’d ever known.

Draco scowled. “You practice these and once you’ve mastered this, I will show you the magic.”

Madeline smiled, and Draco felt a little dizzy. “Okay, Mr. Malfoy,” she said.

“Fine,” he muttered. “So, you keep working on these –all night if you have to. Once you have it, then we’ll do the magic.”

Trying to ignore the curious glances, Draco could, nonetheless, once again feel Harry’s eyes on him as he returned to his table. To his own credit, he didn’t look back once as he finished his meal.

 

The next day was worse than the one before.

To begin with, not only were there Hufflepuffs at the Hufflepuff Annex, but the Weaslette and Loony Lovegood had apparently taken up residence as well, a feat that put them both at least two lengths closer to him than they had any right to be. He still hadn’t forgiven the youngest Weasley for the jinx that she got over on him in Umbridge’s office fifth year, not that he’d ever forgiven a Weasley –any Weasley—for anything.

And, if that hadn’t been bad enough, when he’d arrived for lunch, he found the table awash with first years. Not only was Madeline making cranes, what looked like all of the first year girls, and at least a third of the boys, were also industriously folding parchment.

Grabbing a sandwich from Pansy’s plate, Draco made his way over. He stopped directly behind Madeline and struck, what he hoped, was a threatening pose. “What is going on?” he demanded, around a mouthful of whole wheat and chicken pate.

Madeline looked up and smiled and something within him melted.

“Very well, then,” he sneered, wondering who the hell ate pate on whole wheat. “Tomorrow?”

Madeline smoothed the paper beneath her fingers in a perfect crease. “Tomorrow.”

 

9:52 p.m., the Library

The study group had been tense, but, otherwise, not so bad. The worst had occurred within the first ten minutes when Longbottom bumped Goyle’s cauldron.

Bellowing like an angry Hippograff, Goyle had reached for his wand.

However, before the 9 inches of willow had cleared his lapel, Longbottom had his wand at the ready and was in the middle of a very impressive ‘petrificus totalus.’

Draco sniggered. Longbottom might be shite at potions, but he was a whiz at defense. Who would have guessed it?

Needless to say, once the pecking order was established, things had only improved.

On his way back to his rooms, he made a quick detour to the library. There was a potions book that he’d seen last week in the restricted section –it wasn’t one that they’d had at the Manor, as the primary ingredients were particularly persnickety and neither his father nor mother had a gift for plants.

Given that Longbotton had offered, Draco figured it wouldn’t hurt to take him up on it. Besides, the thought of Longbottom keeping the necessary ingredients in his room made him smile, because no one would ever suspect the bumbling Gryffindor to be using them for what they’d immediately suspect Draco of using them for if they were to be found in his room.

Not that he really needed a love potion, but still....

He faked a smile at Madame Pince, ignoring her meaningful glance at the clock. As he wouldn’t need longer than the five minutes she was required to stay, he didn’t feel the least bit bad about being there –not that Draco had ever allowed himself to be intimidated by any of his Hogwarts professors, well, with a few choice exceptions.

He stopped just as he passed the last set of tables before entering the restricted section.

Just off the main walkway, back in the shadows, Harry sat slumped over a pile of books, his arms wrapped around the bindings, hiding their titles.

Draco didn’t move. It was so quiet that he could hear the dust settling on the books around him.

Harry was asleep.

And, for two of his precious moments, Draco just stood there, watching him.

Eyes closed, Harry’s mouth was slightly open. And even though Draco wasn’t close enough to hear, he knew just how Harry would sound –his breathing even and relaxed in sleep in a way it seldom was in waking.

_In the inky darkness, Draco pulled the sheet away and lowered his head to place a tender kiss on Harry’s hipbone._

_Arching into the touch, Harry moaned low in his throat, “Marco.”_

Taking a step forward, Draco told himself that he just wanted to know what was so important that would keep Harry out studying so late –alone. On the few occasions that he’d come across Harry in the library in the past, he’d always looked like he’d been dragged there by the Mudblood. Else he’d just be making up prophecies or filling out star charts with the Weasel, occasions which didn’t seem to require the use of books whatsoever.

One more step and Draco leaned forward ever so slightly. Beneath the stack of books he could make out a parchment filled with what looked like Harry’s messy scrawl.

Standing up on tip-toe, but not daring to move further, he could just make out the diagram of a spell, but the words were beyond him. Craning his neck, Draco lost his center; and with a startled yelp, he compensated with three quick steps that brought him even with Harry’s table.

Harry started then and looked up blearily. Seeing Draco, he sat back, pulling the books closely to this chest. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he spat.

_“You’re a—!”_

_“Get out, Potter!”_

Draco recoiled. “Uhm...” He took a deep breath. “...I...”

“What?” Harry scrambled out of the chair and then came around the front of the desk, keeping himself between Draco and the books. “I asked what you were doing here.”

Draco laughed, or at least that’s that the aborted huff was supposed to have been. “Madame Pince sent me to tell you that the library is closing,” he lied. “But prior to that, I was on my way to find a book –we are in a library are we not?”

Harry flushed, the color adding a nice complement to his sleep mussed hair. “Well, don’t let me stop you,” he said, nodding in the direction of the restricted section. As if realizing the implications of his gesture, he looked away. “I mean, that’s where you were heading, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, that’s right...” Draco snorted. “...the only reason Death-Eater children ever enter a library is to check out books on Dark Arts, isn’t it? Tell me something, Potter, is your particular brand of sanctimony something that you learned at home with your muggle relatives or is it just part and parcel of being Gryffindor?”

“Shut your mouth, Malfoy.”

Draco gave him a long, lingering look that he knew, from experience, could melt paint. “Actions speak louder than words, Har-ry,” he drawled. “Why don’t you shut it for me? I can think of at least two ways off the top of my head that have worked for you in the past. Well, three, if you count your over-reliance on fisticuffs.”

Harry took a step forward and Draco gasped, anticipating the feel of Harry’s hands on him, in whatever form they took.

“Boys...” Madame Pince’s disapproval sliced through the tension, like steel through flesh. “...the library is closed.”

Without a word, Draco turned and had taken only two steps when Harry caught the edge of his robe, his fingers tangling ineffectively in the billowing material.

“Malfoy,” he breathed.

Draco stilled, but kept his silence.

“I –I think,” Harry stuttered. “I think we should—”

At perhaps the most inopportune time, ever, Finnigan came tearing around the corner, coming within a hairsbreadth of crashing into Madame Pince. It was all Draco could do not to hex him.

“Oh,” said Finnigan, eyes widening as he took in the scene before him. “Why, hello, Malfoy,” he greeted, before turning his attention to Harry. “Are you ready? Or do you need a moment?”

“Your moment is over,” pointed out Madame Pince.

Draco, stifling a sigh, couldn’t help but think how right she was.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hogsmeade Wizard Village, U.K._  
 _1:43 p.m., The Three Broomsticks Tavern, Corner Table_

Draco sat nursing his Butterbeer, his back against the wall –in more ways than one. The day had started pleasantly enough. He had just spent an obscene number of galleons at Glad Rags and Honeydukes and was well on his way through another small fortune if the size of Blaise’s order was any indication.

“So...” Pansy leaned forward. “...where were you the night of the Prefects' meeting, Draco? You never did say.”

“No, I did not,” Draco responded, shooting a glance at Blaise. Blaise, damn him, was examining his cuticles.

“Come on, Draco,” she hissed, “I know it has to do something with Potter.”

“You know nothing of the sort, you stupid cow.”

Pansy merely laughed. “I knew it! I mean, after all, who else has the ability to make Draco Malfoy go from perfect gentleman to school boy prat in less than six seconds?”

“Potter doesn’t make me do anything.” Draco took another sip of his beer. “He means nothing to me,” he continued, pretending not to see the long look that passed between his two friends.

“So, does that mean he’s open game then?” Blaise questioned, reaching for the Honeydukes bag that Draco had left open in the middle of the table.

Draco cast him a level glance. “Game for what?”

Blaise shrugged, selecting a blood-flavored lolly. “I understand that Potter lost his virginity that night...” He removed the wrapper and took a suggestive swipe. “...to someone who looked quite a bit like me.”

Draco’s jaw clenched; he could feel the pulse at his temple.

“If you don’t have feelings for him,” Blaise continued, “of any persuasion, of course, since you’ve never made any secret of the fact that you’ve always hated him, I thought maybe he’d be up for a repeat.”

Draco’s ears roared, the rushing of blood drowning out the noise of the room. “And where did you hear this?” he asked, tightening his grip around the bottle to stop him from doing anything else with his hands that he might regret.

“Brown was telling one of the Patil sisters. She’d overheard Finnigan and Weasley talking about it in their common room.” Blaise shrugged. “I didn’t believe it first, which is why I didn’t say anything...” He took another lick. “...but since then I’ve run into Potter a couple times when you’ve been busy with the first years and he seems different, like he might be interested....” Blaise didn’t complete the thought, which may have been the only thing that saved his life. “Anyway, he’s really not bad once you get him away from the others.”

Draco took another drink.

“You’re not mad are you, Draco?”

Draco glanced over at Pansy. She was watching him intently, her eyes like buttons, hard and shiny.

He hated them both.

“I think you’re the one that’s mad, Zabini,” he managed finally.

Blaise didn’t respond, saying instead, “You know, there’s always been something I’ve been curious about.”

Obviously mistaking Draco’s silence as an invitation, Blaise continued. “I remember that day on the train, our first year. I didn’t really get it at the time, because I didn’t know either one of you, but it’s something that I’ve always wondered since.”

“Go on,” Draco relented.

“Given who your father is, what would you have done if Potter had taken your hand?”

As Draco scrambled for a suitable response, Pansy straightened up in her chair, her calculating smile morphing into an ugly scowl. “What does he want?”

Draco looked up; it wasn’t until he’d found Harry across the room, like a magpie seeking knuts, that he realized that Finnigan was standing scant distance from their table, shifting restlessly.

“Hello, Malfoy,” he greeted, his expression neutral. “Parkinson, Zabini.”

Draco nodded, then surprised his two housemates by using his foot to push back one of the chairs in grudging invitation.

Finnigan inclined his head to one side. Casting a quick look over at the table of Gryffindors, he took two steps forward and lowered himself down slowly, as if expecting Draco to kick the chair out from beneath him.

Silence descended upon their table like a plague of locust; Draco glanced over to the Gryffindors, their table having undergone a similar transformation.

“Neville’s doing loads better in potions,” said Finnigan. “Thanks to you.”

“Here to beg private lessons?”

“Maybe.” Finnigan’s eyes raked him lazily. “But not necessarily in potions,” he drawled.

Much to Draco’s chagrin, Pansy choked and Blaise had the audacity to snicker.

“You see, Malfoy...” Finnigan leaned forward. “Let’s just say that I’ve seen you in a new light and I like what I see.”

‘Oh yes,’ Draco’s inner voice responded. ‘Tacky neon and overhead fluorescent do wonderful things for my complexion.’

“I’d like to see more.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.” Blaise fellated his lolly, eyes drifting back and forth between Draco and Finnigan. When Draco didn’t respond, either way, he continued, “But I’ll give you one thing, Gryffindor, you’re either brave or stupid, coming over here.”

“Some things are worth the risk.” Finnigan reached across the table, snagged Draco’s Butterbeer, and took a quick drink. His tongue lingered at the lip, before setting the bottle down and standing up. “Think about it, Malfoy.”

Pansy started, her cheeks flushed.

Draco skewered Finnigan with his eyes. Part of him knew that this was a trap; it had to be. The other part was intrigued –more than the situation warranted actually. If he couldn’t have Harry; he squinted in the low light, taking in the build, the hair color, the same earnest expression.

As if reading his mind, Finnigan placed both hands on the table and leaned forward until they were practically nose to nose. “I could even charm my eyes for you, if it helps,” he whispered, before standing quickly and walking away. He didn’t look back.

“What was that about?” Blaise demanded, just as Pansy let out another strangled laugh.

“Merlin’s beard,” she cackled. “Potter looks like he’s about to swallow his tongue!”

Galvanized, Draco stood, sending his chair skidding deafeningly across the ancient floor. “Hey, Finnigan...” he called, side stepping Blaise and avoiding Pansy’s horrified expression. “Wait up.”

Finnigan grinned as Draco’s hand found the small of his back and swept him towards the door.

And, as for Harry –well, for once, Pansy hadn’t been exaggerating.

 

Draco spent the rest of the day with Finnigan and with no romantic gestures made plans to meet the next day as well.

Surprisingly, the second day in the cheerful Gryffindor’s company passed as pleasantly as the first. Finnigan was actually quite entertaining and there was something refreshing about not having to hide his feelings on the off chance Harry just happened to walk by.

Finnigan never once asked him about the bar, but Draco found himself wanting to talk nonetheless. It wasn’t that he felt the need to confess –because he didn’t. Besides, what good would it have done to confess when Finnigan had been there?

They walked down to the lake in companionable silence and Draco wondered what it would have been like if the other boy hadn’t had to use magic to make his eyes the colour of the killing curse or if his overstated swagger had been, instead, a quiet purposeful stride.

At one point, he glanced up to see Colin Creevey shadowing them across the lake. “What does he want?” Draco hissed, jutting his chin towards Harry’s number one fan.

“Dunno.” Seamus squinted as he looked across the rippling water. “To tell you the truth, I think he’s got a bit of a crush on me.”

Draco scoffed. “I thought he was too busy licking Potter’s arse to notice anyone else.”

“Maybe...” Seamus shrugged. “...though one could say the same about you.”

Draco opened his mouth, but then swallowed the angry retort. “I may have licked a lot of things,” he said, instead, “but Potter’s arse was not one of them.”

Finnigan laughed out loud, knocking Draco with his shoulder. “Run out of time, did you?”

“This is not the time to exhibit Gryffindor courage, Finnigan,” he growled. “As Creevey has turned back, there are no other witnesses.”

“I’m not scared of you, Malfoy.”

Draco pulled himself to his full height and rounded on Finnigan. “Since when?”

Finnigan side-stepped him neatly. “So are you and Harry just going to pretend that it didn’t happen, then?”

“What would you have us do, Finnigan, buy matching towels?”

“I know he went to see you last week –in your room. He didn’t look all that happy when he got back to Gryffindor.”

“Good,” Draco answered crisply. “As I didn’t look that happy when he left.”

Seamus cocked his head to one side and grinned. “So you’d have rather that he’d stayed?”

“Hardly.”

Somewhere off to their right, a twig snapped, and a handful of birds soared out across the Forbidden Forest.

They ambled on a few more feet, before Finnigan stopped to transfigure a leaf into a blanket and threw himself down on top of it in an ungainly heap. “Have a seat, Malfoy.”

Draco weighed his options. Hmm, sit here on this mangy blanket out in the sun with a rather cute half-blood wearing Harry Potter’s eyes and possibly talk about Harry or go back into the dungeons and answer a list at least a mile long from Pansy and listen to Blaise go on about his sexual delusions?

He sat.


	4. Chapter 4

_The Dungeons, Potions Classroom, 3:17 p.m._

“....in pairs,” Severus finished. “You may select within your own house, on the condition that you have not worked together in the past. Potter?”

Harry looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his quill.

“Five points from Gryffindor for not paying attention in class,” Severus chastised.

“I heard you,” Harry snapped. “I was just trying to decide.”

“Ah...” Severus steepled his fingers. “...if that’s the case, then that will be another five points for wasting my time; it is not like it is a proposal of marriage, now is it? Who will it be?”

Harry glanced across the room; the corners of his mouth tightened, as if he were trying not to smile. “Uh, Za –Zabini.”

“Very well.” Severus frowned. “Malfoy?”

Draco turned to see Blaise, gathering his books; Blaise, unlike Harry, made no effort to hide his shit-eating grin.

Knowing that he’d not be able to concentrate with those two together, Draco went with practicality over preference: “I’ll take Granger.”

Four Gryffindor heads snapped as one and Draco shot Finnigan an as-close-to-an-apologetic-glance as he could, under Severus’ hawk like visage.

“Weasley?”

“Patil.”

“Ah, finally...” Severus’ gaze flew back to Draco. “...five points to Gryffindor for showing an appropriate level of house loyalty. Parkinson?”

“Nott.”

And so on.

The hours literally passed like weeks.

Granger actually was a pretty good lab partner –in fact, she’d kept him from adding the anise when he should have been adding the newt eyes, a mistake that would of resulted in a disaster of Longbottiam proportions.

It wasn’t as if it was his fault, after all, that Blaise had, at that moment, reached over and pushed Harry’s glasses up from where they’d slipped to the end of this nose while Harry was stirring their potion.

‘Damn Blaise. And damn Harry –was that speccy git actually smiling? Blaise was as good as dead.’

“You can add the anise now,” Granger said, slicing into his thoughts.

“What?”

“Oh never mind.” She snatched the vial of crushed seeds from his hand and dumped them into the bubbling orange liquid. “You know, Malfoy, I always thought that maybe I’d enjoy working with you in potions –I thought I might actually learn something for a change.”

Draco shot her a glance. “What did you say, M—, uhm, Granger?”

She scowled. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

Surprised that Granger was even making an effort –because surely Harry told her—Draco turned his attention, at least the half that he didn’t need to keep an eye on Blaise, to his lab partner. “I’ve been a bit distracted,” he offered by way of explanation, if not apology.

“What’s your game, Malfoy?’ she asked, stirring in perfect clockwise motions. “If you have something to say to Harry, why don’t you just say it instead of going ballistic every time he time he touches Zabini?”

Draco’s jaw clenched and he crushed the dried beetles in his bare hands. ‘Harry’d touched Blaise? The bastard was beyond dead.’ He wondered if Snape would let him have Blaise’s wardrobe once his parents had been notified.

“—Neville?”

“Hmm?” Draco’s head snapped to the right at the sound of Harry’s laughter.

“Neville,” Granger repeated as she set the stirrer aside and added the crushed beatles; her hand touched his sleeve. “He’s actually doing much better in this class since he’s been taking your study group.”

“Yes, well...” Draco brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his robe. “...actually, Granger, that was something that I wanted to discuss with you.”

“What?” She straightened ever so slightly.

“Why it is that you never offered to tutor Longbottom in Potions? Surely as the so-called brightest witch of our time you could have managed a little one on one. He’s really not so bad once you get him away from Severus.”

Granger looked like she’d swallowed a toad.

“I mean, I would think that it would be part of Gryffindor pride to make sure that no one’s left behind. In fact, I think I’d die of shame if one of my housemates felt the need to go to say, Ravenclaw, for help in anything.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“Not that I mind,” he assured, lest she tell Harry he was complaining. “I find that teaching a potion to someone for whom it’s difficult requires that I learn it all that better myself.” Noticing that they were they getting close to time, Draco gave the potion two final stirs, before ladling some into a beaker for Severus’ approval.

“Ne –Neville’s never asked me,” Hermione said finally. “I –of course I would have helped him if he’d asked.”

Draco raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Perhaps he thought you were too busy rewriting Weasley’s and Potter’s work to make the time for him.”

Again, Granger gaped, her cheeks aflame.

“Never mind,” Draco consoled, “I’ll make sure Neville gets his N.E.W.T. You just keep making sure that Mr. Wizard and his little dog, Toto, don’t fail out before Bumbledore needs to trot him out for the grand finale.” With that, he swirled away from the desk, making sure to engage Severus in conversation, leaving Granger –insufferable suck-up that she was—to clean up the bench.

Despite that Severus was giving him veiled hints about the illegal uses of binding potions his attention was only half-hearted at best.

Blaise and Harry were talking together, heads bowed close, like they were the best of friends. Indeed, he was going to have to make a note to warn Blaise that his hair was turning red. With Severus droning on and on in his ear, Draco could just make out the words, “D.A.,” “amnesty,” and “Slytherin.”

 

 

Ten minutes later found Draco gathering up his books and heading toward the door. He glanced up to see the Golden-trio just three paces ahead. The Weasel had one arm around Granger’s shoulder.

Blaise, on the other hand, was no where to be found, a testament to the fact that he was smarter than he looked.

“He didn’t say anything!” Granger’s voice was shaking.

“Come on, Hermione,” Harry bent down, obviously trying to see her face. “I can tell you’re upset about something. If Malfoy said something—”

“He didn’t,” she assured, reaching out to touch his arm. “It’s okay, Harry. Don’t do anything, okay?”

“Herm—”

“Promise me.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught Draco’s eye, before turning back to face Harry. “Promise me, Harry,” she repeated. “Promise me.”

“I—” Harry stopped dead in his tracks and turned, his eyes locking with Draco’s for the briefest of moments. Swallowing, he looked away. “I promise,” he whispered at last. “I promise.”

Hearing “Marco’s” pathetic plea coming out of Granger’s mouth and Harry’s same half-baked answer, Draco saw red. Before he could even think about what he was doing, he dropped his book bag at Goyle’s feet, sped up and grabbed Harry by the shoulders. His palms itched where his hands curled into the cheap robes.

“Well, that’s reassuring, since Merlin knows that the great Harry Potter,” Draco spat the names as if they were the vilest words in his vocabulary, “always keeps his promises.” He pushed Harry into the wall, hard, until his face was with flush with the stone.

“Get off me, Malfoy!” Harry growled.

Just managing to shake off Weasley, who’d grabbed him from behind, Draco leaned forward until his lips just brushed Harry’s ear. “Make me!”

Harry shuddered beneath him.

“You know, we really should stop meeting like this, Harry,” he drawled, his body hardening in response. “People may get the wrong idea...unless, of course, you push me away like the hypocritical little bastard you are.”

The silence beneath the cacophony of angry Gryffindors was deafening, but instead of pushing him away, Harry broke Draco’s grip and turned where he stood until they could feel each other’s erection through the safety of at least five too many layers of cloth.

Mouth going slack, Draco started to say something –not that he knew what—only to have a blinding flash explode just out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly, he could make out Granger’s words and he felt himself being pulled –as opposed to pushed—away.

Another flash illuminated the corridor and Harry started yelling just as Severus came thundering out of the classroom, wand at the ready. Not sure what exactly just happened, Draco didn’t protest when Finnigan grabbed his hand and led him quickly up the spiral staircase.

Still shaking, Draco didn’t think anything of it when, once again, the stairwell exploded in a flash of light.

 

Draco sat in the empty common room, staring aimlessly into the fire. Everyone else was at dinner, but here he was, unable to get the feel of Harry Potter’s erection pressing into his groin out of his head –that, or the way that Harry’d tasted the first time that Draco had gone down on him in that horrible muggle bathroom.

_“I’m going to take the edge off, my beautiful Harry,” he whispered, trying to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. “That’s all. We’ll go somewhere later, somewhere better,” he assured, hoping like hell he’d be able to take down the wards at Lucius’ muggle flat without being seen. “I promise. We’ll do it right.”_

_Harry jerked back as he leaned forward; he could feel his breath bouncing off of Harry’s flesh, warming his cheeks. Taking a deep breath, Draco put his mouth over the tip of Harry’s cock in a gentle kiss. It was just exactly –and yet nothing—like what he’d imagined...._

Just as he was decided to give into temptation and head to his own room for a quick wank, Draco heard a loud and all too familiar crack.

“Young Master Malfoy, sir?”

Draco turned, only to find one of the house-elves shifting from foot to foot, balancing a tray precariously on his head.

Draco blinked. “Are you wearing a _sock_?” he asked. Swamped, suddenly with a sense of homesickness, he leaned down. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, sir, young Master Malfoy, sir.” The house elf beamed; there was no other word for it. “Yes, you are knowing me, sir. It is me, Dobby. Dobby used to work for Master Malfoy at the manor, sir, and Dobby used to be caring for you when you were just a boy, young Master Malfoy, sir. But now Dobby is working for Professor Dumbly, for a wage, sir, as Mister Harry Potter gave Dobby a sock and freed him from Master Malfoy...”

From what Draco could tell, the house elf flushed.

“...the elder, sir.”

When Draco didn’t respond, the house elf –Dobby—offered him the tray, laden heavily with all of Draco’s favorite sandwiches and pumpkin juice. “Since you didn’t come down to the Great Hall, young Master Malfoy, sir, Dobby brought you some dinner. Dobby sees that you’re not eating enough, sir, and Dobby does not want you to get sick over what happened with Mister Harry Potter. Dobby looks after Harry Potter, sir, because he gave Dobby his very first sock,” he finished, as if that explained everything.

Taking the tray and setting it on the coffee table in front of the fire, Draco moved into a squat and considered the creature in front of him.

From this level, he did seem more familiar, and suddenly, Draco saw a flash in his mind’s eye of playing ball out on a summer lawn, the sounds of one of his parents’ balls drifting down from the Manor, and of splashing through the creek bed behind the greenhouse, chasing frogs.

Pushing away the childish memories, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“How does looking after Harry Potter translate into bringing me sandwiches?”

Dobby took a step forward until their noses were just inches apart; his eyes glazed over with tears.

“Dobby has been missing, you, Young Master Malfoy, sir. Despite what happened with your father, sir, you were always Dobby’s very favorite friend. We played many good games together, young Master Malfoy, sir. Do you remember?”

_Picnics beside the lake, jump rope, exploding snap, fireworks, and sandcastles...._

“Don’t change the subject, Dobby,” Draco reprimanded, annoyed that he’s allowed himself to get so easily sidetracked. He wondered if somehow Dobby was feeding him memories as a diversion–after all, no one really knew for sure of what house elves were truly capable. “Did Potter send you here?”

“Dobby, uh, Dob—” Dobby stammered.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Has he asked you about me?”

Dobby shook his head, taking two steps back.

“Dobby...” Draco extended his hand to the trembling being and clasped his fingers securely in his own, drawing him near. “...has Harry Potter actually asked you anything about me –anything at all?”

“Please don’t ask Dobby, young Master Malfoy.”

‘That would be a yes.’

“Dobby has told Harry Potter nothing about our games when we were friends, sir, Dobby promises.”

Taking a deep breath, Draco wondered just what Harry thought he could possibly learn about from speaking to his old house elf –other than, of course, that he’d cried when his pet snake had died just like any normal four year old and, perhaps, that his best friend truly had been the pathetic creature standing in front of him, quaking.

Releasing his grip, Draco stood up. “It’s all right, Dobby. I know that you would never give away our secrets.” He remembered the beating that Dobby had taken on his behalf the day that Draco had broken Lucius’ favorite music box, an artifact so steeped in dark magic that even the house elf had been unable to repair it. “If Harry Potter asks about our games or about what I was like as a child, you may tell him.”

“Young master Malfoy?”

“But nothing about my father or nothing about my father’s secrets, do you understand?”

Dobby’s head bobbed up and down. “You want to be friends with Mr. Harry Potter, sir?”

“I have no idea.” Draco shrugged. “So, did he send these,” he asked motioning to the sandwiches, “or did you?”

“Mister Harry Potter, sir.” Dobby smiled; his relief palpable. “Harry Potter asked me to send all your favorites and Dobby brought them right away, sir.”

Draco picked up a mozzarella, tomato, and basil on a crusty baguette. “Really?”

“Yessir, young Master Malfoy.” If anything, Dobby’s smile got even bigger. “Mister Harry Potter is a great wizard, but he is a very considerate. Harry Potter knows that knows that Dobby loves socks more than anything and every year for Christmas, he is getting Dobby socks.”

Not sure how Harry sending him his favorite sandwiches equated with the Boy-Who-Lived giving Dobby socks, Draco cocked his head to one side. “Just one thing, Dobby,” he requested with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Try not to embarrass me too much.”

“Oh, never, young Master Malfoy!” he squeaked. “Dobby would never do anything to cause you any embarrassment! Dobby is very discreet.”

Not reassured in the slightest, Draco threw himself down in one the chairs and tucked in.

 

He was still sitting there when the Slytherins began returning from the Great Hall. Pansy and Blaise were at the head of the pack and they didn’t think twice about interrupting his solitude.

“And here we were worried about you missing dinner!” Pansy giggled. “So who did you have to bribe to get it delivered?” She glanced over at the tray and her eyes grew to twice their normal size. “Is that blue cheese and bacon?”

“Back off, Panse,” he growled, pulling the tray close. “These came special ordered for yours truly and I have no intention of sharing. So what did you lot have?”

“Steak and kidney pie,” Blaise groused. “Are you sure you want that tenderloin?”

“Like you deserve anything, you traitor! I saw you cozying up to Potter in Potions like, like, like I don’t know what. Really, Blaise, it just about put me off my dinner.”

Blaise eyed the tray, before glancing at Pansy. “But, yet, here you are managing just fine.”

“With no thanks to you.” Draco polished off the last of the pumpkin juice. “So what were you and the Golden Boy discussing ever so earnestly in Potions, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Dray. Why didn’t you ask him when you had your cock up his ass in the hall? Though, on second thought, maybe I can see why it didn’t come up.”

“I bet it was the only thing that didn’t come up!” Pansy snorted, reaching forward and snagging a piece of loose Roquefort from the tray.

Ignoring her, Draco turned his attention back to Blaise. “Don’t make me ask you twice, you bloody wanker.”

Blaise stuck out his tongue. “If you must know, Little Lord Malfoy, Potter asked me about me.”

“Bully for you.”

“No, seriously, he asked about what I was going to do after leaving and I told him that I didn’t know for sure.”

“Did he ask if you were a Deatheater?”

Blaise seemed uncomfortable. “Not in so many words, but we talked about it.”

Draco leaned forward in his chair. “And what did you say?”

“I told him that it wasn’t my war and that I was probably going back to Italy anyway, so it didn’t really matter.”

“I bet he loved that!”

“Actually...” Blaise looked away. “...he pointed out that this wouldn’t stay in Britain and that you were either with You-Know-Who or you were with Dumbledore. He said that you couldn’t be neutral, that You-Know-Who wouldn’t permit it. Do you think that’s true, Draco?”

Draco bit his lip. “I guess that sounds about right. I can’t imagine that my father would ever accept neutrality either now that I think of it.”

Pansy gasped and Draco reached out to touch her arm.

“He offered to let anyone who hasn’t undecided, you know, who doesn’t know if they’re going to take the mark, to train with the other students, you know, in that secret group they’re always whispering about.”

“You mean that neutral organization –otherwise known as Dumbledore’s Army?” Draco smirked.

“Shut up, Malfoy!”

“Shut up, Malfoy?” Draco repeated slowly. “One period in Potter’s company and it’s ‘Shut up, Malfoy!’?”

Blaise had the brains to look chagrined. “He seems like he’s curious, that’s all. He all but admitted that he doesn’t even really know any Slytherins –other than what he’s seen of them during Quidditch and in classes.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe we should have a house party and invite them over for tea.”

Blaise and Pansy were silent.

“What?” Draco looked to Blaise, then to Pansy, and then back to Blaise. “No.”

Pansy sat up in her chair; she was practically bouncing. “Actually, Brown came over to us at dinner and asked if Slytherin would host a Slythindor Party in the dungeons.”

Draco thought he was going to lose his dinner. “And just why would we agree to such a thing?”

“Because Potter agreed to supply the drinks and the food and Thomas offered to bring the music?” Blaise volunteered as he reached for one of the remaining sandwiches. “May I?”

Draco made a dismissive motion. “So, what’s in it for them?”

“The dungeons are so _sexy_!” Pansy mocked in a shrill falsetto.

“Not as sexy as _Malfoy_!” Blaise rejoined, shrieking around a bite of sandwich.

Draco smiled in spite himself. “Please tell me you’re not channeling Granger and the Weasel...” He paused strategically. “...in that order.”

“Brown and Patil,” Pansy assured. “Brown figured you wouldn’t mind since you and Seamus have been so chummy—”

“Who, by the way,” Blaise interrupted, “was reduced to eating dinner with the first years at the Annex. What’s that about?”

“Poor ickle Irish,” Pansy cooed. “But enough about him. Let’s talk about you.”

Draco straightened up. “And just what would you like to know?”

Pansy smirked. “So, tell me, darling, what _were_ you doing the night of the Prefects’ meeting?”


	5. Chapter 5

Draco took a single step into the Gryffindor Common Room, stopped, and looked around.

“It’s all right,” Finnigan assured. “They’re all at the match. Promise.”

“You realize that this is totally stupid,” Malfoy pointed out, grudgingly fascinated by the garish warmth, so at odds with the understated cool tones of his own common room. 

“You know you’re dying to go up to the Boy’s Dorm,” Finnigan goaded, taking Draco’s hand and tugging him forth. 

“Curiosity and commonsense don’t always go hand in hand,” he retorted, allowing himself to be tugged. “Though, being Gryffindor, I don’t suppose that you need me to tell you that.”

Finnigan glanced up at him, flashing his Potter coloured eyes. “We can snog on Harry’s bed,” he coaxed.

Draco let out a startled laugh. “You are terrible,” he complimented. “And, I must admit, having gotten to know you better, I no longer think that Slytherin and Gryffindor are the most diametrically opposed house personalities.”

Finnigan pulled him closer, kissing him with an intensity that rested firmly between the friends that they were becoming and the lovers that Finnigan wanted them to be. Draco’d had kisses like this before, with both Blaise and Pansy, among others. They were nice –he wished they could have been more—but they were what they were. They weren’t Harry.

“Come on, then,” Finnigan encouraged. “Ravenclaw’s got a pretty good team; no one will be back for hours. Besides, if we get caught, we’ll just tell them that we were planning Lavender’s and Parkinson’s party.”

Looking at the reason that Brown thought he’d agreed to this stupid party, Draco suffered an uncharacteristic pang. “I feel like I’m using you.”

Finnigan shook his head. “As me dad used to, say, ‘You can’t rape the willing,’”

“You’re quoting Muggle philosophy as a means to seduce a Malfoy?”

“I’d quote Who-Know-Who if I thought it would help.” Finnigan shrugged. “Look, I’m going up –you do what you want.”

Draco raised his eyebrow and then took the steps, two at a time.

In the end, he wasn’t sure whose bed they were on. 

He’d entered the boy’s dorm slowly; Finnigan grabbed him from behind. “Scared, Draco?” he asked, twisting Draco’s arms behind his back and pushing him face first into a scarlet coverlet.

“You’ll pay, Finnigan!” Draco roared with mock fierceness, wriggling until he was free. As soon as he could use his arms, Draco flipped his attacker. With his knees planted firmly on either side of Finnigan’s hips, Draco smirked. “You are so easy.”

Finnigan pushed his hips up, bumping Malfoy’s groin. “I’d be even easier if you’d let me.”

Shaking his head, Draco shifted until he completely covered Finnigan, chest to chest, hip to hip. Finnigan opened his legs and Draco’s thigh slipped in between, bringing them even closer.

“Draco,” Finnigan murmured, his hands sliding between them. “Will you –would you?”

“Would I what?” Draco lifted up so that Finnigan could loosen his tie.

“I want to see you.”

Pulling back even further, Draco remained silent while Finnigan removed his tie and undid the buttons of his shirt. He shuddered at the first swipe of Finnigan’s hands against his bare chest.

Trying not to think about the last time that someone had touched him so intimately, Draco settled back down.

Finnigan slid his arms around Draco’s waist, beneath his shirt and held him.

Draco wasn’t sure how long they’d lay there, sharing soft, languid kisses and Finnigan touching him with a reverence that surprised even Draco.

“I’m not sure why you’re doing this,” Draco whispered, his lips against Finnigan’s collarbone. “You know how I feel about Harry.”

“You ever had a fantasy? You know, the one that you’d never in a million years thought would happen, but one day you come close, so take what you can get?”

Draco laughed, his fingers tightening on shoulders. “I would think that you, of all people, should know the answer to that.”

Finnigan flushed. “Well, then, there you go.”

“So, am I just a fantasy then?”

“No,” Finnigan assured, leaning up to snatch a quick kiss. “You are my friend; however...” Finnigan’s eyes sparkled. “...being here with you, like this, in Harry’s bed, that’s an entirely different can of worms.”

Draco sat up, eyes wide. “Are we really in Harry’s bed?” he asked, feeling a flood of warmth that had nothing to do with the body beneath him.

“Most definitely,” Finnigan answered. “And considering that this is my fantasy, I can think of a couple of things that I’d like to do, other than talk about yours.”

Draco gave Finnigan a long look and found nothing in his expression that suggested that he wasn’t being completely honest –not only about what he wanted, but also about what he expected to get.

Now that they had that cleared up, Draco sank back down and settled in for a good-old-fashioned-no-strings-attached-snog-between-friends. Things were just getting hot, Draco’s fly open and Finnigan’s shirts in a heap on the floor, when they heard footsteps thundering up the stairs. 

“Harry, wait!” Longbottom called, somewhere in the distance.

“Shit!” Finnigan gasped, grabbing for a blanket to cover them; Draco, on the other hand, remained perfectly still.

The door hit the wall with the bang and Harry came crashing in and went to kneel in front of his trunk with his back towards them. Without looking in either direction, still dressed in his Quidditch robes, he flipped open the lid and began rummaging through this possessions.

Draco felt a dangerous tickling in the back of his throat. One, he couldn’t believe that Harry hadn’t looked up. Two, he wondered what the hell had Harry so worked up that he hadn’t realized he wasn’t alone.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Harry mumbled, raising his wand.

“What?” Draco mouthed, tearing his eyes off Harry to look at Finnigan.

Finnigan closed his eyes. “We are so dead.”

Draco looked back just in time to see Harry stiffen. 

He turned slowly, his face blank. 

“What?” 

Three steps and Harry was on top of them. Barely taking a breath, he yanked the blanket back, revealing their shared state of undress. He looked at each of them in turn, his expression inscrutable.

“Game over so soon?” Draco sneered, rolling onto his back, revealing a goodly portion of bare skin. After all, it wasn’t like it was the first time that Harry’d seen him naked.

“Oh, I would say the game is definitely over, Malfoy,” Harry met his sneer and raised him to a snarl. “Get out.”

“What?” Draco struggled to sit.

“Harry!” Finnigan placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s not what you think!”

“Get out,” Harry repeated, his words really nothing more than a rumble in the too quiet room.

“Come on, mate,” Finnigan tried again.

“I said...” Harry took a deep breath. “...get out.” He spared a glance at Finnigan. “And take Seamus with you.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “Now, Potter, be reasonable...” Even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake.

Within less than two minutes, he and Finnigan were out on the landing; their clothes and limbs almost indistinguishable in the heap where Harry’d tossed them. It had been frightening, really, the ease with which he’d dispatched them. 

Trembling, Draco closed his eyes he listened intently as voices began to fill the spacious room below.

“So how come Harry came back so early, I wonder?” said Finnigan.

Draco shook his head; he had no idea.

Finnigan sat up and leaned against the wall. “So, do you think we won, then?”

Draco banged his head against the floor and took a deep breath. “I suppose that really depends on how you define ‘we’.”


	6. Chapter 6

_6:49 p.m., Dungeons, Potions Corridor (the following day)_

Draco didn’t look up when Finnigan fell in easily beside him the following evening. “So, do you think they’re ready to murder you in your sleep?”

“Sorry?”

“Your house mates?” Draco switched his book bag to his over shoulder and stepped nearer until their shoulders barely brushed. Finnigan started, but then relaxed into what had rapidly become their normal gait. “You know, smothering you with your own pillow for fraternizing with the enemy.”

When Finnigan didn’t answer, Draco turned. “What?”

“Are you the enemy?” Finnigan asked, without turning to meet his eyes.

_‘First rule of war, Potter: “Know thy enemy.”’_

_Harry couldn't supress his smile. ‘Don’t you think you took it a bit far?’_

_Not sure if he should be incensed or flattered, Draco went with what he knew. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Harry....’_

Shaking off the unwanted memory, Draco snorted. “I may as well be. What were you thinking anyway, Finnigan?” He twined their fingers easily.

Finnigan shrugged, his palm uncharacteristically tense in Draco’s grasp.

They maneuvered the halls in silence, until they reached the Slytherin common room.

Draco tossed off the password without a second thought, before sweeping Finnigan inside and dragging him through the high backed leather chairs and down the stairs to his room. Neither one commented on the mutinous glares of his own housemates.

Once inside his private room, he dropped his book bag by the door and swung their hands between them. “So, what can I do for you this evening, Mr. Finnigan?”

Finnigan opened his mouth, but then closed it. “I don’t know, Mr. Ma –Malfoy. What would you like to do for me?”

Draco relinquished Finnigan’s hand, only to run his own up Finnigan’s arm and rest it easily on his shoulder. He brushed his fingertips across Finnigan’s neck; the way his skin prickled with goose bumps was gratifying. “Are they giving you a hard time?”

Again, Finnigan shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“But I do.” Draco touched his face before letting his hand fall all together and turning away. “If it gets too bad, we can stop. You have to pick your battles, you know, and it probably doesn’t make sense to alienate them –not for this.”

“And what is this, exactly?” Finnigan stepped forward, until Draco could feel the heat of him. “Besides, is that what you think I’m trying to do –alienate them?”

Draco allowed himself a small, yet unguarded, smile. “No. And despite all your flattering words, what I really think is that you’re trying to make me feel better about being completely and utterly rejected by the Git-That-Lived.” Draco shrugged. “Hell, who knows? Maybe I deserved it.”

Finnigan laid a hand on his shoulder and Draco surprised them both by reaching up and taking it.

“Malfoy?”

Draco turned, Finnigan’s hand still in his. “I thought you were past that?”

Finnigan looked puzzled.

When he didn’t answer, Draco raised his eyebrow. “What were you going to say?”

“It’s –it’s...” Finnigan took a deep breath. “...I’m sure you told me before, but, why are you doing this –all of this?”

Thinking back to their previous conversations, Draco frowned. “Doing what, exactly?”

“You know...” Finnigan attempted to tug his hand away, but Draco merely tightened his hold. “...why are you...friends....with me...or Neville, or even Madeline for that matter? I know you’ve said, but, could you explain it to me one more time?”

Draco dropped Finnigan’s hand, his eyes narrowing; the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “What have they been saying to you?” he demanded. “What did he tell you?”

“Neville?” Finnigan asked, the question ending in a guilty lilt.

“You know who I mean,” Draco spat. His stomach hurt –he could practically feel the imprint of Finnigan’s shoe in his abdomen. “What has he been saying about me?” ‘Damn you, Harry Potter,’ he cursed, ‘damn you to hell.’ How come the Boy Wonder always seemed to know where to hit when no one else ever did?

“Nothing,” Finnigan smoothed, taking an awkward step forward as if trying to repair the distance between them. “I swear. No one’s said anything!”

“Then why are you asking me again?” Draco snapped. “I don’t know why I should have to repeat myself!”

Finnigan hesitated. “It’s not like that, Mal –Dra, Draco.”

“Then what is it like, Finnigan?” he demanded, his disappointment sounding increasingly like anger.

“I –I just....” Finnigan licked his lips and took another step forward. He reached out and circled Draco’s wrist with his fingers, letting his thumb slide beneath the cuff of the silk button down that Draco wore beneath his robes in a definite caress.

Suddenly uncomfortable with Finnigan’s touch, Draco pulled his hand away; his stomach ached. To his surprise, Finnigan reclaimed his wrist, his touch strangely possessive –demanding, almost.

“It’s soft,” he whispered, a blush tingeing his cheeks. “You’re soft.”

“Malfoys are many things, but soft is not one of them,” he reminded. “You should do well to remember that.”

When Finnigan didn’t respond, Draco took a step forward and in so doing felt another shift in the air.

Finnigan remained silent.

Draco frowned. “Second thoughts?”

“About?”

“About you –and me,” he answered.

Finnigan shrugged and for a moment Draco thought he saw a flash of regret. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, that’s helpful. What are you really after, Finnigan?”

“The truth –that’s all,” Finnigan answered. “Maybe if you’d just tell me the truth, I’d understand.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “You want the truth?” He took a deep breath, not even sure that he could really say it out loud. “Okay, try this for truth: I love him –I think I may be in love with him. And I fucked up. End of story. But then again...” He hesitated ever so slightly. “...you knew that.”

Finnigan’s thumb traced the pulse point on his wrist, his touch lingering and warm, forceful in a way that it wasn’t before. “You –you loved him? Harry?” Finnigan leaned forward and, in that moment, Draco knew that the other boy was going to do something stupid –what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

For some reason, Draco couldn’t handle Finnigan’s not-so-subtle entreaties –not after just saying what he’d said. “Yes,” he nearly shouted, pulling his hand away; he could still feel the burn where their flesh had met. Not sure why Finnigan was pushing, or why he was responding, Draco frowned. “I did and I still do –don’t tell me you thought otherwise. I thought we were friends!” he accused. Anger welled up from deep within –dark ugly tentacles tightening around his chest, threatening to undo him. “I thought you knew this!” he shouted, suddenly madder at himself than he was at Finnigan. “Why else would you have charmed your eyes for me?”

Finnigan’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Is this how Gryffindors treat their friends?” Draco pushed his hand through his hair, trying to rub off the sensation that still lingered in his skin. “Against everything I’d ever been taught –against every fiber of my being—I trusted you.”

Finnigan looked gobsmacked, there was no other word for it. “Ju –just forget about it,” he stammered. “I –I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

“I can’t just fucking forget about it!” Draco spat, pulling Finnigan towards him until their bodies were flush, his erection pushing deep into Finnigan’s hip. Draco swallowed, the bile in his throat threatened to choke him. His eyes burned as the last few weeks finally took their toll... the frustration, the disappointment, the unending desire for the one he would never have again. “It’s not fucking-bloody-okay!” Ignoring the claxons blaring in his head, Draco pushed Finnigan –hard—causing him to stumble.

“Hey, watch it!” Finnigan tried to catch himself, but Draco was too fast and too angry.

“You watch it, Finnigan!” Draco’s hand connected with Finnigan’s shoulder and Finnigan landed hard on the mattress, flat on his back, in an undignified sprawl. “What did you think would happen? You know who I am –you know what I’m like. You –you of all people! I thought you understood how I felt and you come in here and what? You use it all against me on some stupid whim. ‘Forget everything I’ve ever said, Malfoy, could you tell me again, why I should trust you?’ Fuck you, Finnigan! Fuck you!”

Eyes wide, Finnigan reached up to grab his shoulders, holding him still. “Malfoy,” he began. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize –I didn’t know.”

Taking a hard long look at Finnigan, Draco caught a flash of desire in eyes that was as clear as the stripes on his house tie. Ignoring every identifiable reason why this was a bad idea, Draco leaned down until he could feel Finnigan’s shallow pants against his lips. “You are playing a dangerous game, Gryffindor.”

To his surprise Finnigan didn’t even blink. “Tell me about it.”

Taking that as consent, Draco decided that they’d deal with the fall out later –after all, Finnigan had forgiven him for worse. And if he didn’t, who cared? Draco pushed down hard. And without even allowing Finnigan to draw a breath, just in case either one of them came to their senses, Draco captured his mouth in a kiss that held none of the warmth of their previous exchanges –none of the teasing, none of the trust. He was purposefully cruel, punishing, almost hoping that Finnigan would return the favor.

Finnigan gasped; his eyes flashed disconcertingly as Draco pulled back.

But instead of cringing, Finnigan just smiled –a smile that seemed oddly out of place on his otherwise boyish features, but was familiar nonetheless. “Bring it on, Malfoy,” he challenged. “I know you can do better than that; I’ve seen it.”

Draco shook his head slowly. “Merlin, save me from Gryffindors,” he muttered, leaning back into another kiss, this one less painful than the last.

“You hardly look like you want saving,” Finnigan whispered, pushing aside Draco’s robe easily.

He hated that his fingers trembled as he reached between them and slipped Finnigan’s buttons from their mates. He didn’t bother removing the tie; instead, he used the silky strip as leverage when he sat back on his heels to bring Finnigan with him.

Unlike his own, Draco noted, Finnigan’s fingers were surprisingly steady as they undid the fastenings of Draco’s slacks. As one hot, greedy hand fisted into his hair, the other pushed its way into Draco’s boxers, gripping him tightly. Finnigan’s grip was perfect. It was obvious that he'd done this before.

Feeling his control start to slip, Draco bit Finnigan’s lower lip hard, then reached down to tear at Finnigan’s zipper –the cheap muggle contraption sticking beneath his hands. The metal wrenched beneath them as he gave it a frustrated tug.

Lacking the lingering glances and shy touches from the day before, they got each other off without any further intimacy –almost without mercy. Hell, he may as well have been with Blaise or even Pansy for that matter.

Even as the sounds of Finnigan’s orgasm lingered in the room, Draco could taste the ashes in his mouth. This wasn’t even close to what he’d wanted –to who or what he needed. Biting his own lip to keep from crying at the emptiness of it, he laid his head on Finnigan’s shoulder, without meeting his eyes.

“Malfoy?” Finnigan sounded as hollow as he felt.

“Don’t say anything,” he commanded, knowing full well that despite what Finnigan had said that he’d just used Finnigan in the most hideous way possible. He’d taken advantage of Finnigan’s crush for what had amounted to nothing more than five minutes of adolescent grappling –grappling that hadn’t done anything but remind him of what he’d lost or, more like it, what he’d never had to begin with.

“But—”

“No.” Draco turned his head and placed a chaste kiss on Finnigan’s neck, as if that small gesture could make a difference.

“Will I see you in the morning?” asked Finnigan.

Draco shook his head, his forehead rubbing against the bunched cloth at Finnigan’s shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

“I really didn’t understand,” Finnigan tried again. “I just thought it had been a bit of fun.”

It was all Draco could do to stop from apologizing, from begging Finnigan’s forgiveness, or, at the very least, from trying to explain. But even as he opened his mouth to say something, say anything, seventeen years of training clamped down on him like a vise. “I think you should go.”

He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch Finnigan exit the bed. He didn’t want to hear the slide of cloth on skin as he dressed. He didn’t want to see the questioning look for which he had no answer.

“Will you be okay?” Finnigan queried from somewhere near the door.

“I’m a Malfoy,” he said simply as he buried his face in the crumpled pillow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”


	7. Chapter 7

_9:42 p.m., Dungeons, Draco Malfoy’s Private Room_

Two hours must have passed before Draco’s stomach growled. Frowning, he stumbled out of bed, out the door, and into the Slytherin Common Room. Blaise and Pansy sat by the table, deeply engrossed in a game of wizarding chess.

“If you don’t move your queen, you’ll lose it in three turns,” he announced, as he threw himself into the overstuffed chair next to Pansy.

“No fair!” Blaise protested. “I’d been setting that up for ages.”

“Then I’ve done you a favor for teaching you an invaluable lesson...” Draco snagged one of Pansy’s chocolate covered blueberries and popped it in his mouth. “...don’t ever let be known that you ever thought life was fair.”

Pansy smiled and kissed his forehead. “You’re looking better, love. Did you get some sleep?”

“Some.” Draco took another sweet, paying more attention to the chess board than to her. If Blaise didn’t do something with that knight, he’d lose it –too bad for Blaise that he wasn’t the one with the chocolate.

“Did you get Finnigan’s message?” She asked, turning so that her feet were buried in his lap.

“No...” He reached down and rubbed her arch. “Did he leave a message on his way out?”

“Oh, was he here?” Pansy moaned as he dug his thumb in deep beneath the ball of her foot and wiggled her toes. “I guess he finished his project, then?”

“He didn’t say.” Draco hesitated, his hands stilling. “But just so I know, what was the message?”

“Just that he and Thompson—”

“Thomas,” Blaise corrected, also stealing a chocolate.

“Whatever. Anyway, just that he and Thomas...” She flexed her foot as a not so subtle hint. “...would be working in the library until curfew on their Advanced Charm projects and that he wouldn’t be able to meet up with you like he planned. I guess it didn’t take as long as he thought.”

‘Well, that explains all of Harry’s late nights in the library.’

“Or else he just couldn’t stay away,” Blaise teased. “Really, Draco, you realize that you’re seriously undermining our reputation, here, what with dating Finnigan, tutoring Longbottom, and doing whatever the hell it is that you’re doing with the ickle first years.”

Draco frowned. “One, Zabini, I am not dating anyone and two, what I do with Longbottom and those first years is my own business.”

“What are you doing with them?” Pansy asked and then attempted to placate him by offering him the bowl of candies. “I heard Granger telling the youngest Weasley that she thought that you were trying to undermine the Head Boy. Are you?”

‘Hmm,’ Draco mused. Although he hadn’t really thought about it in those terms –thank you, Mudblood—it wasn’t a bad idea. “Perhaps,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “What else are they saying?”

Giving up, Pansy shifted, curling her feet beneath her; she leaned her head against his shoulder and batted her eyelashes. “I heard Weasley telling Potter that he thought you were trying to take over the house from beneath and that you were trying to recruit the first years over to the dark side.”

‘Another not so bad idea; maybe he hadn’t given Potter’s minions enough credit.’ “And what did Potter say to that?”

“He said that, yes, he could see how little Madeline would be able to deliver a mean killing curse and that they should pack it in while they still have the chance.” Pansy closed her eyes and chortled. “You should have seen Weasley’s face!”

“Truly, Draco...” Blaise leaned forward, and moved his pawn forward three spaces. “...I didn’t think that that color existed in nature. I swear, you are the only one who could be accused of recruiting death eaters while teaching origami.”

Draco forced a smile. “I know. How flattering is that? So, now that I’m still devious –as opposed to simply going soft—I expect you’ll be there with me tomorrow at the Annex?” He’d dropped the ‘Hufflepuff’ after his first luncheon with the first year girls, defying anyone to use it again in his presence. He pushed himself out of the chair and blew kisses to them both. “I think I’ll head down to the kitchens for something a bit more substantial.” As he approached the outside door, he stopped and turned. “By the way, Pansy Darling....”

“Yes?”

“What time was it that you saw Finnigan?”

“Maybe 7:00 –7:30.”

Draco’s straightened, the cool chill sweeping along his spine. “And what time is it now?”

Blaise glanced at his watch. “It’s just now ten. Why do you ask?”

Something wasn’t right, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Curious,” he muttered, trying to remember exactly what time it was that he’d met up with Finnigan outside of the Potions classroom.

“Huh?”

“Oh, I was just curious, that’s all.” Draco smiled at Blaise, trying to look reassuring. “I’m heading to the kitchen; don’t wait up.”

 

Draco stole quietly in deserted library. It must have been busier than usual, as stacks of discarded books littered almost every table.

Five of the smaller desks had been moved together, leaving the telltale evidence of two friendly, yet distinct, study groups.

Approaching silently, lest he alert Filch –or even worse, that bloody feline of his—Draco glanced at the books: they were all charms texts. Obviously, the Gryffindors, which would also explain the general destruction left in their wake.

Thinking that the trio would be Potter & Co., he was surprised: the books on two of the tables dealt with charming Muggle artifacts, the books on the third, plants. Knowing that neither of these subjects had any appeal for his most dire academic rival, he changed his assessment: Finnigan, Thomas, and Longbottom.

The duo of tables revealed tomes of theory (Granger), some of which actually looked pretty good, along with some fairly introductory texts on the charming of magical beasts (Weasley).

Wondering where that left Harry, Draco continued his way through the confusion, glad that he’d gotten here before the house elves did.

He found Brown and Pavarti’s study pod, filled with books of beauty charms and, before he knew it, he was back near the restricted section. ‘Ah ha.’

The solitary table in the corner was also in disarray; if anything, it looked far worse than the others. As he approached, he caught a glimmer of the magical signature that insured that the books, and whatever else, would remain undisturbed.

Taking a deep breath, Draco withdrew his wand and removed the ward carefully, thanking his stars that Harry was as sophisticated with charms as he was with potions. Stepping closer, he read the small print across the top of the open book: ‘Charming the Self: Everything You Need to Know about Confundus, Disillusionment, and other Charms of Disenchantment and Mimicry.’

Draco frowned, moving around the table to get a closer look.

Harry was researching glamour charms!

Skin prickling, Draco lifted the book carefully. The spell diagram that he’d seen before was gone, but in its place was a stack of photos. Picking them up, Draco flipped through them quickly. They were Muggle and not very good. His fingers stilled and he realized, with a start, what he was seeing. They were close-ups, ridiculously close close-ups, probably shot with some sort of extendable lens, of ears, chins, hazel eyes, noses, and several shots of mouths –or rather a mouth, a very familiar mouth.

‘So much for Creevey’s crush,’ he thought, his stomach sinking to his feet.

By the time he’d gotten to overly close shots of t-shirt and robe-clad shoulders and denim clad hips, Draco levitated Harry’s belongings to clear the desk. Within seconds, a Picasso-like mosaic of Finnigan emerged and Draco’s own words to the first year Gryffindor came back to haunt him: ‘in order for your magic to create the crane, you must know how to make the crane...you must know everything about it; every seam, every crease, every detail...and that goes for anything....’

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Draco murmured, impressed despite himself, the implications of Harry’s course of study just sinking in –that and Seamus’ message.

Draco’s earlier words, spoken in confidence, rained down on him like curses: ‘Okay, try this for truth: I love him –I think I may be in love with him. And I fucked up. End of story.’

End of the fucking world is more like it or at least Draco’s world, as he and Harry both knew it.

The room whirled around him and single drop of sweat slid between his shoulder blades, landing at the small of his back. Taking a steadying breath, he glanced down at the remaining photos in his hand. Nestled in with the rather macabre body parts were two scenes. These pictures, unlike the rest, had been fingered almost beyond recognition.

But despite the oily smudging, Draco recognized them immediately; he should, as he had been there when they were taken.

With far more discretion than Draco would have credited him, Creevey must have snapped the first after Draco’s and Harry’s confrontation outside of the Potions classroom; in it, Finnigan was leading Draco up the stairs. They were holding hands.

The second was even worse. Here, Creevey had managed to capture their first kiss, a kiss that had been more about comfort than passion, as Draco had just admitted to Finnigan how he felt. That is, how he’d felt about Harry. He had offered neither an apology nor an excuse for his own behavior, but had simply offered the truth. Finnigan, to Draco’s surprise, hadn’t asked for either; instead, he had simply reached out with fingertips and pulled Draco forward until lips just met.

Draco shuddered, horrified that there had been witnesses to what he considered one of weakest moments. Not sure what any of this meant other than he’d been hoist by his own petard–and certainly not daring to hope that the Boy Wonder might actually have been...jealous—Draco let the books fall where they would, without bothering to clean up the collage that now lay hidden beneath.

Let Harry take that as he would and know that if he wanted to play, Draco was still in the game, despite this latest, rather unexpected, set back. And, well, if he didn’t, then let him sweat –and sweat he would, wondering if, and when, Draco would tell Finnigan what he’d done.

Trying to downplay the significance of anything that he might have disclosed during his conversation with the would-be Finnigan, or at least come up with some spin that would allow him to save face, Draco reset the childish ward and returned to his room.

‘If this really is what it meant to be friends with Gryffindors,’ he reflected, instead, ‘thank Merlin he was Slytherin.’


	8. Chapter 8

6:02 a.m., Dungeons, Draco Malfoy’s Private Room

Draco crawled out of bed well before the alarm sounded. He took careful steps with his appearance and felt confident, regardless of the fiasco of the night before –and, yes, he was secure enough to give credit where credit was due. Harry had bested him. But today was a new day and he knew things, now, that Harry didn’t know that he knew –always an advantageous position.

It was true that he’d raged the night before, once he was safely away from prying eyes. He’d upended furniture and broken lamps, only to mend, in order to do it again. Tears of anger and frustration had followed near maniacal laughter until he saw a reflection in the mirror that he’d recognized all too clearly, but wasn’t accustomed to seeing on his own face.

But having learned at an early age that regret is a waste of time, he was determined that today would be different. He would make it different. He had no other choice.

The Great Hall was crowded when he arrived, just as he had planned.

Pansy and Blaise were at the Annex, having moved the first years on to dragons and skulls, much to Granger’s obvious disgust, whereas Finnigan had apparently been welcomed back into the bosom of his housemates.

Stopping to take a quick inventory, it was clear that Finnigan was there by Potter’s invitation, as Weasley still seemed to be somewhat unwilling to meet his eye.

Just then, Finnigan looked up and smiled. “Hey, Draco,” he greeted, starting to stand.

“That’s all right...” Draco took a deep breath as he crossed over. “...stay where you are. I’m sure that the food tastes the same at Gryffindor as it does at Slytherin.”

As the Gryffindors digested his words, Draco slipped in between Finnigan and Longbottom. Without waiting for a reaction, he leaned over and kissed Finnigan lightly on the cheek. “Sorry about last night...” he began, adhering to the script that he’d practiced until he’d fallen asleep. “I wasn’t myself.”

Finnigan looked puzzled, but kept his mouth shut.

Draco would make a Slytherin out of him yet.

“But then again,” he remarked, meeting Harry’s eyes for a long moment. “I hear that there’s a lot of that going around these days.” Reaching across the table, Draco snagged a link of sausage off of Harry’s plate. “Do you mind?”

“Uhm....”

“So, how are the charm projects, going, my love?” Draco asked, turning back to Finnigan and trailing his fingers down his jaw.

Finnigan’s momentary surprise was colored with relief. “So you got my message?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and, for the first time, and for no reason that he could name, he wondered at Finnigan’s complicity in Harry’s scheme. “Of course I did.” It wasn't quite a lie.

Finnigan glanced over at Harry, unwittingly confirming Draco’s suspicions, before meeting his gaze. “So, everything’s okay, then?”

Harry stiffened and shook his head in warning.

“Ouch!” Finnigan reached down and rubbed his leg beneath the table. “You did talk to Pansy, didn’t you, Draco?”

Draco closed his eyes: ‘Fucking Gryffindors –fuck them all and their holier-than-thou bullshit.’ “You knew,” he whispered, before murmuring the same accusation that he thought he’d made the night before: “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends!” Finnigan reached out to touch his shoulder, but Draco knocked his hand away. In his mind’s eye, Draco reviewed the photographs, some of which, now, on second thought, were too close to have been casual, too posed to have been candid.

‘Finnigan had known,’ Draco decided in less time than it took to draw a breath. ‘He’d known all along.’ Something ugly twisted within. ‘He’d been Potter’s friend after all, not his.’ Unable to stomach his own culpability, his own naivety, Draco did the next best thing.

His fist collided with Finnigan’s nose; the spray of blood splattering across Granger’s oatmeal small recompense for his fury. Draco pulled Finnigan up by his robes and had him flat out across the table before anyone thought to scream, Finnigan’s head bouncing inelegantly in a platter of fried eggs and ham.

“Malfoy!” someone shouted just as his hand connected, this time, with Finnigan’s jaw.

“Stop it!”

“Jesus, Malfoy!”

Soft wails echoed throughout, but nothing reached him.

“Draco!”

Finnigan gasped, eyes wide with shock. “What the hell?”

“I think you know bloody well know what!” Draco shouted their mouths close enough to touch.

“Stop it, Malfoy!” Strong hands fumbled at his shoulders and pushed him back.

Unprepared, Draco lurched backwards; he fell off the bench, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. He closed his eyes, letting the cold of the stone seep into his bones.

“It wasn’t his fault!”

Draco looked up, only to find Harry crouched above him. Although their bodies didn’t touch their faces were less than an inch apart. He could taste Harry’s breath.

“He didn’t know, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was low, pitched for his ears alone.

“Then how do you explain the photographs?”

Harry blanched, but made no attempt to dissemble. “He thought he was just helping me with my charms project.”

“I don’t believe you,” Draco spat, trying to block out Finnigan’s whimpers.

_‘You’re such a prat, Draco,’ Finnigan had told him once. ‘Just because I’m Harry’s friend doesn’t mean I can’t be yours, too. It doesn’t have to be either or.’_

Shaking off the memory, Draco sneered, “There is no fucking inter-house unity; it’s always going to be Slytherin versus Gryffindor. I was a fool to believe otherwise.”

_‘I mean, you’re friends with me and Zabini aren’t you? Is it really that different?’_

“But, he didn’t know,” Harry pleaded. “I swear it!’

“On what...” Draco drew a shallow breath. “...your mother’s grave? Though, I guess, in this case....”

“Fuck you, Malfoy!”

“Been there, as I recall,” Draco spat. “And then some.”

Hearing his own words thrown back in his face seemed to stall Harry in his tracks and may have been the only thing that prevented him from planting his fist, already curled and ready, against Draco’s jaw.

“What’s the matter, Potter, cat got your tongue?” Draco pushed, wanting to feel the pain that he knew was inevitable, craving it.

“Shut up!” Harry’s weight shifted, bringing them closer still.

“Pot—” he began, not even sure what he was going to say. But, just then, Harry was lifted bodily off of him, his limbs flailing.

“Mr. Potter!” Severus shook Harry and just as he let Harry’s feet touch the ground, he gave him a shove, which sent Harry crashing to his knees. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Professor, I—”

“Oh my goodness,” McGonagall clucked, her voice somewhere in the direction of the Gryffindor table. “Flitwick,” she directed, “go see to Mr. Malfoy. Hooch, you run and get Poppy. I have never in all of my years at Hogwarts....”

“Since Malfoy and Seamus are no longer friends, does this mean we won’t be having the party?” Draco heard as tiny hands checked his ribs for fractures.

Motioning for Flitwick to leave him be, Draco closed his eyes and waited for Madame Pomfrey. ‘That’s exactly what it means, Brown, you stupid cow’ he thought as his mind wandered to the type of wounds that couldn’t be healed by magic alone.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Dungeons, Slytherin Common Room, 9:15 p.m._  

Draco finished off his third butterbeer as Pansy and Dobby finished arranging the food that had been magically appearing since 6:00. He wondered if it lessened Harry’s contribution any given that he seemed to have his own bloody house-elf on staff –a house-elf that just happened to have had tea every afternoon with Draco, until Lucius decided that it wasn’t fitting for a son of his to play with non-wizards; hence, the introduction of Crabbe and Goyle into his life at age five.

Dobby smiled tremulously at Draco from across the room and Draco found himself smiling back, in spite himself.

In a move that Draco would never have predicted, Professor McGonagall and Severus agreed that the so-called Slythindor Party should go on –the catch being that it was now open to all houses and that Harry and Draco clean up afterwards, without using magic. Moreover, if any trouble broke out, any at all, Harry and Draco would get three detentions each –with Filch!—and they would each lose an additional 150 house points.

‘Fucking Potter.’ Every time he was around, it was like Draco’s brain short-circuited. Even Severus had chastised him, privately of course, for his inability to just let things go. It’s too bad that Severus hadn’t given him any step-by-step instructions on how he was supposed to do that. Leave it to Draco to be able to mix the most lethal and volatile potions in the wizarding world, only to be flummoxed when it came to dealing with Harry Potter –or even talking to him with anything that resembled civility.

The likelihood of either of them getting out of this evening without a 300 point deficit was slim.

Draco glanced up just as Thomas, Finnigan, and Granger entered, each carrying a stack of clear plastic boxes. Trying not to look too interested, he turned his back and stared into the fire.

Only a few moments had passed when he felt a slight tug at his arm. “Draco?”

Draco turned slowly; he hadn’t seen Finnigan since the incident in the Hall and he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to say. As a Malfoy, he didn’t have that much experience when it came to apologies.

“Harry told me what happened,” Finnigan began.

Draco remained silent.

“To tell you the truth,” he continued, “I guess I sort of figured that he might try something like that when he decided to use me for his charms project instead of Ron.”

‘Perish the thought.’

“But I also figured that if he was going to do it that particular night that you’d get my message first. Therefore, when he showed up with my eyes –as opposed to his—you’d know.”

“Know what?” Draco shook his head, lost.

“I thought you'd know that it was him and not me...” Finnigan surprised him by reaching out and touching his shoulder. “...but I take it that didn't happen.”

“Why are you being so nice to me, Finnigan?” Draco demanded. “I practically broke your nose.”

Finnigan actually grinned. “Taking a punch from Draco Malfoy gets you mileage in my house,” he bragged. “Hell, I won’t have to make my bed for a week! Besides, Dean has decided I’m a bit of a hero....”

Draco glanced over where Thomas was eyeing them suspiciously, wand in hand.

“Anyway,” Finnigan recaptured his attention. “Harry feels awful about what happened. He said that you said some things that you probably wouldn’t have said if you’d known it was him.”

Draco flushed, remembering all too well exactly what he’d said. “So what else did he say?”

Finnigan shook his head. “You do know that he’s mad about you.”

“What?” If he’d still been drinking, he would have choked.

“Even that night at the bar,” Finnigan blurted, “you were all he could talk about –before Marco showed up it was ‘Malfoy this, Malfoy that...’.”

Draco drew back in disbelief.

“Seriously, mate,” Finnigan assured. “And even later, he told me that Marco reminded him of you –and you were the first person that he suspected once we apparated back to Hogsmeade.”

“Suspected?” Draco frowned. “Lovely.”

“You know what I mean.” Finnigan bumped him with his shoulder. “Personally, I just chalked it up to wishful thinking.”

Draco was skeptical. “So you really didn’t know that he was going to pretend to be you?”

Finnegan coloured prettily and Draco realized that his was as close as he’d ever been to the boy when his eyes were his own. “As I said, I figured he might try it –though I promise you I wasn’t in on some elaborate plan to embarrass you or whatever he did. I wouldn’t do that to you. I told you, Draco, I really thought you’d figure it out and that you and Harry could suss things out once and for all.”

At just that moment, Thomas tossed a silver disk up into the air and they both watched in silence as Granger cast a spell. A tendril of red struck the disk and music flooded the dungeons.

“They’ve been working on that for days. I think she was trying to one up you on those tattoos you and Parkinson managed,” Finnigan said, before turning back to meet Draco’s gaze. “So am I forgiven?”

Draco grinned, realizing that maybe having a friend in Gryffindor wasn’t so bad after all. “Am I?”

Finnigan took his hands and swung him around in a graceful arc. “Hell, Draco, I’m practically a celebrity thanks to you!”

“Wanker,” Draco returned, crossing his arms and allowing himself to be drawn near. “So, is this muggle music?” he asked. “If so, it’s not bad.”

“Yeah,” Finnigan answered, planting a chaste kiss just behind Draco’s ear. “Dean’s quite the aficionado, you know.”

Not sure that he wanted to know what that was about, at least not yet, Draco just nodded and let himself get lost in the music.

 

Finnigan had long returned to Thomas’ side when the other two-thirds of the Golden-Trio emerged, lugging in what looked like a barrel of what Draco assumed was the evening’s libations. Why they didn’t bother to levitate it was beyond him, but he supposed they had their reasons.

Harry grunted as he and Weasley sat the container down next to the table of food. He then whipped off his sweaty t-shirt, cast a quick freshening charm, and shrugged into the button down that he’d had tied around his waist.

Stepping out of the shadows, Draco watched covertly as Harry handed Granger another disk. Although he was only cautiously hopeful about what Finnigan had confided earlier, he was curious as to what kind of music that Harry favored. Casting a smirk over at Pansy and Brown, who were busy spelling up drinks that they’d dropped when Harry'd stripped off the T, he wandered out onto the so-called dance floor, and waited.

Instead of the raucous rock-and-roll that he’d been expecting –something as loud and brash as Harry himself—Draco was pleasantly surprised by the slow, languid beat that filled the air. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his hips from responding to the sensual pull of the music. He had to admit, he was impressed.

More intrigued than he’d intended to be by Harry’s choice, he tuned out the girls’ chattering and tried to listen to the words.

_‘The suckers lose themselves in the games they learn to play....’_

Draco snorted, and closed his eyes, losing himself in the languorous melody.

_‘Children love to sing but then their voices slowly fade away....’_

His neck prickled, wondering if Harry was trying to tell him something.

_‘People always take a step away from what is true...that’s why I like you....I want you....’_

Draco practically jumped out of his skin when a pair of all too familiar arms slid awkwardly around his waist, drawing him flush against an even more familiar abdomen.

“Relax,” his would-be assailant whispered, his lips moving fleetingly over Draco’s ear; too warm hands ghosted up Draco’s waist to the silky black button down that he’d gotten on the last Hogsmeade weekend. “Aren’t you hot?” he asked, in a voice that suggested he wasn’t commenting on the dungeon’s lingering chill. Nimble fingers plucked at the luxurious material, leaving open buttons in their wake.

Lightly calloused palms slid across bare flesh and Draco closed his eyes; he was shaking. He could just make out Susan Bones’ and Hannah Abbott’s shocked whispers over the dulcet tones of the music.

_‘...open invitation to the dance...happenstance set the vibe that we are in...no apology because my urge is genuine....’_

The rational part of Draco started to pull away, but he couldn’t. The unspoken promise in the touch, despite everything that had happened, was just too much too pass up. So he did the next best thing. Reaching down, he ran a steadying hand along the arm cradling his middle and shot a self-conscious glance over to Finnigan who was giving him a wide-eyed-thumbs-up.

“What’s your name, love?” his seducer murmured with just a hint of humor, his whisky tinged breath caressing Draco’s flesh like a long lost lover.

Draco shuddered, only to be pulled closer still. He wondered if he’d sounded so...for a lack better word...starved when he’d asked the same. Some part of him –the same part that used to wish on falling stars and chase fireflies –wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was being given a chance to start over, from the beginning.

“Mal—” he began out of habit, but when muscled arms cinched his waist, he tried again. “Dra—Draco,” he stuttered, deciding to go for broke.

“Marco?” came the amused response.

“Draco,” he spoke clearly this time. “I’m Draco.”

Harry leaned around, catching Draco’s bottom lip in a tender bite. “Nice to meet you, Draco.” He licked the lip that he’d just released, seemingly oblivious to the stares of surprise, shock, and, if the look on Blaise’s face was anything to go by, envy, coming at them from every angle. “I’m Harry.”

Unwilling to play possum in his own common room, for anyone, let alone the boy who lived, Draco took one of Harry’s hands and swung out until they were face to face. “Your dancing has improved,” he noted carefully as Harry took his other hand and pulled him back.

“I’ve been taking lessons,” Harry admitted as he leaned in and brushed his lips across Draco’s cheek. “Neville assured me that if this didn’t work, I could just borrow some of the plants he’s been growing in our room. I bet you’d never guess that Neville’s got all the basic ingredients of one very potent love potion.”

Draco released one hand and allowed himself to be turned; he glimpsed Blaise at the bar chatting up Finnigan; he had no idea where Thomas had gone. “And what would Longbottom need with a love potion?” he asked archly, thinking how strange it was to be having a civil conversation with Harry Potter, about anything, let alone what they were actually talking about.

Harry grinned. “Dunno.” He cocked his head. “But according to this book that I borrowed from Blaise, it turns hate to love, which is what makes it so powerful.”

“Well it wouldn’t have to be too powerful, then” Draco licked his lips. He could taste something vaguely familiar beneath the lingering tang of the beer and alcohol and wondered if it was Harry himself. “After all, I’ve been told that it’s just a thin line between love and hate.”

“Funny, I’ve been told the same thing.” Harry turned him again. “Listen,” he said, motioning towards the disk that still spun between Granger and Weasley, who looked like they were doing their level best to stay standing. “This is my favorite part.”

_‘...village church yard is filled with bones weeping in the grave...the silver lining of clouds shines on people Jesus couldn't save...you want to know how deeply my soul goes...'_

“You really do have a savior complex, don’t you Pot, er, Harry?”

Harry actually laughed and spun him out, only to reel him back into another rib crushing embrace. “There will be no regrets when the worms come,” Harry whispered, his voice rough over the muggle’s soothing tones. “And they will surely come.”

“That’s a bit dark, isn’t it?” Draco loosed one hand and used it to smooth Harry’s hair out of his eyes, his fingers skirting lightly over the now famous scar. When Harry didn’t answer, Draco pulled him down in a chaste kiss, still not wanting to press his luck or to give away too much.

“I’m sorry about Seamus,” Harry murmured, just as the song was winding down.

“Well...” Draco bit his lip, once again savoring the taste. “...I’m sorry about Marco.”

Harry cocked his head to one side. “Are you? Because I’m not sure I am.”

Draco coughed; his cheeks were burning. “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that I wish that I had handled things differently –afterwards.”

“Like maybe you wouldn’t have pushed me away after you made me promise that I wouldn’t do the same to you?” Harry pressed. “It wasn’t my intention to fight that last night in your room, you know, despite what happened in the bathroom.”

Draco cast him an appraising look and Harry flushed scarlet.

“I meant the _Prefects_ ’ bathroom, you conceited git.”

“I see.” Draco took Harry’s hand and led him through the common room, which had grown increasingly crowded with 6th and 7th years from each of the houses. He leaned up against the wall in a relatively secluded corner, out of sight of all but the most prying of eyes.

“I heard what you said, Ma –Draco. I know why you gave me the points and I was there –that night I mean. I was definitely there.” Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So why did you push me away?”

Draco shook his head. “I, I’m not sure.”

Harry frowned, his fingers carding through the hairs at Draco’s nape. “I mean, I think it was pretty clear that I didn’t come to your room to fight.”

Draco thought back to the fear that had gripped him that night –the near panic that had risen in his throat the moment when he’d realized that Harry was following him. He’d just stepped off the stairway when the unique scent of fresh air, sunshine, and vanilla had assailed him through the normally damp dungeon air. He’d fully expected to be hexed, if not worse. And what was worse still, he’d known that he’d deserve it. By the time they’d reached his room, his heart was pounding so fast that he could hardly breathe.

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice more shrill than he’d have liked. “I had done everything wrong at that point and there you were, back again. I had no idea what you wanted –what you might do.” He looked away. “I’m not entirely without conscience, Harry, I knew that what I’d done was wrong.”

Harry placed one hand on the wall next to Malfoy’s head and leaned in close. “So, were you telling me the truth, at least?” He licked his bottom lip slowly and Draco felt a liquid heat pooling beneath his belt. “About why you did it?”

“I’ve said so many things,” Draco admitted, “I can’t keep them all straight at this point.”

“That you wanted to –that you could.”

Draco remained silent; he really wanted to throw Finnigan back in Harry’s face so that he could gain the upper hand, but every time he started to bring it up, something stilled his tongue.

“Or were you telling Seamus the truth?”

Draco looked away. It would have been so easy to say yes, but he just couldn’t do it. “And just what reason could I possibly have had for lying to Finnigan –about that?” he asked instead, hoping that Harry would grasp the truth behind his equivocation.

Harry smiled, really smiled. “Look...” He leaned forward, his breath once again skittering along Draco’s neck. “...I can forgive you about Marco and everything that has followed up until this point, if you can forgive me about Seamus. Can you?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Has Finnigan forgiven you?”

“I think so.” Harry glanced back over his shoulder to where Finnigan and Thomas were snogging on one of the couches. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he has.”

“He told me you were mad about me,” Draco divulged, drawing his attention back. “Is it true?”

“Mad about or just mad?”

“About.”

“Hmm...” Harry kissed him then, a light brush of lips. “I think I might have heard that rumor.”

“And, well, you know what I told him about you,” Draco pointed out, “considering you were there.”

“So we’re good?” Harry asked, his tone optimistic.

Instead of answering, Draco reached up and returned the kiss, drawing this one out a bit with a tender swipe of his tongue across Harry’s lower lip. Glancing over Harry’s shoulder, Draco caught Pansy’s and Blaise’s twin smirks. Pulling away reluctantly, he cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, Harry, I think I need to have a word with my housemates.”

Harry moved back, casting him a questioning glance.

“Well given that it seems to be common knowledge in Gryffindor, I think it’s high time I told them exactly where I was on the night of the Prefects’ meeting,” he admitted carefully. When Harry didn’t respond, he added, “That and I need to speak to Blaise about loaning out my library books, among other things.”

Harry looked chagrined. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to help.”

‘With friends like that....’

“But we’ll talk later?” Harry asked, tipping Draco’s face up for a surprisingly daring kiss.

“Count on it.”

 

Not exactly sure why, Draco spent the next two hours as far away from Harry as he could possibly get, choosing, instead, to watch his one-time nemesis from a distance as Harry joked around and laughed with his friends and, strangely enough, with Draco’s friends. In fact, Harry seemed as equally comfortable with the Slytherins as he did with the Gryffindors. But more than that, he looked happy, something that Draco hadn’t seen since, possibly, they day they’d met.

While Harry held court, entertaining his cronies with minor hexes and playing truth or dare, Draco hit the dance floor, dancing with Abbott, Bones, Brown, Mandy, Daphne, Smith, Patil (both of them), Longbottom, and, to most everyone’s surprise, and to Weasley’s eternal dismay, Granger.

“He’s happy, Malfoy, so do try not to fuck this up,” she remarked stiltedly as he dropped her down in an exaggerated, yet, graceful dip.

“What, no threats of hexes?” he returned, not quite teasing, as he pulled her up and twirled her around.

“Some things go without saying,” she pointed out, placing a hand on his shoulder and allowing him to sweep her around the room. “I spoke with Neville, he really likes you by the way. He thinks you’re funny.”

Draco raised eyebrows questioningly. “You seem so surprised.”

“Actually, with the exception of Harry, you may be the most popular boy in Gryffindor at the moment –potions lessons, magic cranes, whatever it was you were doing with Seamus, and now hosting a party in the dungeons. What’s gotten into you, Malfoy?”

He cast Harry a lascivious look and then caught her eye meaningfully. To his delight, she turned bright red and whacked him in the chest.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” she scowled disapprovingly and then ruined the effect by giggling.

Amused, Draco swallowed a smile. “So, how is Weasley holding up through all this social upheaval?”

Hermione shrugged. “If Harry’s happy, he’s happy.”

“Really?” Draco was astounded.

“Well, let’s just say that he’ll keep it to himself.” As the music changed, Hermione lowered her hand and stepped away. “Thanks for the dance....”

“Draco,” he finished for her. “And you’re welcome. In fact, it was my pleasure...” he hesitated for only the barest of seconds. “...Hermione.”

Needing a moment to process what had just happened, indeed what had been happening all evening, Draco went over to the buffet, where empty bottles and plates half filled with food seemed to be breeding like rabbits. Knowing that he and Harry were responsible for the clean up, sans the use of magic, he decided to get an early start. He had just picked up one of the trash bags that Snape had provided when he heard a loud crack.

“Good evening young Master Malfoy, sir,” Dobby greeted. “Is young Master Malfoy needing Dobby, sir?”

“No, Dobby,” Draco squatted down until they were eye to eye. “I’m just getting started on the mess so Pot –so that Harry and I have less to do later.” Though he and Harry hadn’t talked since their initial conversation, he assumed that they’d have plans. Several times when he’d been on the dance floor he’d felt Harry’s eyes on him and each time it had happened, he’d blushed like a school girl, much to the delight of his dance partners. Fortunately no one seemed to harbor any illusions about who, exactly, had managed to get under his normally icy exterior.

“But Dobby is happy to help young master, sir, should you require any assistance.”

Looking at the piles of dirty dishes and empty bottles, Draco was tempted. “No, Dobby,” he said, “Harry and I aren’t allowed to use magic, but thank you anyway.”

To his surprise, Dobby smiled. “Young master Malfoy and Mr. Harry Potter aren’t allowed to use magic, but _Dobby_ is allowed to use magic.” He snapped his fingers and suddenly everything was as it should be.

“But Dobby!” Draco looked over his shoulder, fully expecting to see McGonagall staring disapprovingly and Filch looking like Christmas had come early. “Harry and I got in trouble for fighting –we were supposed to clean up. If Severus and McGonagall find out that you did it, we could get detention –with Filch!”

Dobby shook his head and raised one of his long spindly fingers to Draco’s lips. “Dobby does not work for Professor McGonagall or Mr. Filch. No, Dobby works for Professor Dumbly, for a wage, and Professor Dumbly at no time told Dobby not to do magic. Besides, Dobby is a free elf, young Master Malfoy, sir, so Dobby can do what he pleases and it pleases Dobby and, I believe, Professor Dumbly, to help young Master Malfoy and Mister Harry Potter, sir.”

Knowing from past experience that it was no use to argue, Draco stroked the house elf’s ear like he used to when he was a child and still thought that the powerful magical being standing before him was merely a pet. “Thank you, Dobby.”

Dobby’s smile increased three-fold. “Young Master Malfoy, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Young Master Malfoy and Mr. Harry Potter will be good friends now?”

Draco smiled, before pushing himself up to his full height and seeking Harry’s eyes across the crowded room. “I hope so, Dobby. I certainly hope so.”

 

 

As the hours stretched on, Draco found himself drawn closer and closer into Harry’s orbit, until finally, when the clock chimed half twelve, Harry caught his eye and motioned to the door. With his heart somewhere near his throat, Draco disentangled himself from Pansy’s cloying embrace and made his way towards the corridor leading to the lower dungeons. As he rounded the corner, Harry’s scent drifted to him in the cool morning air and this time the fluttering that Draco experienced in his stomach had nothing to do with panic.

He had just stepped through the doorway, when Harry caught him by the shoulders. “Hey,” Harry greeted softly, his fingers curling into the satin of Draco’s shirt. “I didn’t think you’d ever leave.”

Draco turned, eyes wide; whatever he started to say died on his tongue. Harry Potter was in his room. And even though Harry'd been there before –twice, really—Draco couldn’t help but feel nervous. Shy, even.

Harry grinned, his own cheeks rosy red. As if picking up on Draco’s hesitancy, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and stubbed his toe on the floor. “What?” he asked.

Trying not to notice just how ridiculously long Harry’s eyelashes were, even behind those silly glasses, Draco mirrored his pose. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

Harry took two steps forward, then reached out and hooked his thumbs through Draco’s belt loops. “This feels weird,” he admitted, pulling him close.

Draco’s eyes fluttered close as Harry’s nosed his hair away from his face and nibbled his ear. “What feels weird?” he asked, letting his hands rest on Harry’s hips. “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

“Maybe.” Harry’s lips just brushed the curve of Draco's jaw, sending shivers coursing down his spine. “But it seems different.”

“Well...” Draco bit his lip as Harry slipped his hands up Draco’s shirt. “...it’s both of us, that’s different.”

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Harry warned.

Before Draco could take a breath, Harry’s mouth was on his. It was warm and wet and perfect. Draco groaned, tangling his tongue with Harry’s, tasting the whiskey and the beer and underlying flavor that Draco now knew was uniquely Harry.

Before he even realized it, he’d fisted his hands in Harry’s hair. Drawing even closer still, he tilted Harry’s head back and used his height advantage to take control of the kiss.

Moaning against his tongue, Harry yielded and Draco felt a surge of unadulterated lust as he turned Harry and guided him toward the bed. When Harry toppled across the mattress, they fell as one. Draco landed hard in a tangle of knees and elbows, not having bothered to pull his weight.

“Hey!” Harry laughed. “You’re not as light as you look!” But he really didn’t seem to mind when Draco recaptured his mouth in a probing kiss. Just stopping long enough to breathe, Draco reached down between them, making fast work of Harry’s broad cloth oxford. Unlike the first time that he’d done this, the buttons revealed a glorious expanse of smooth skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his lips never leaving Harry’s. “So beautiful.”

Harry reached up and wrapped a strand of Draco's hair around his finger. “I think this is just one more case of mistaken identity –have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re the beautiful one.”

Draco smiled. “I’ll never as beautiful as you,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t know how.”

“We’re not that much different, you know,” Harry pushed up and rolled them over until he was laying between Draco’s legs; their erections lined up like two halves of a whole. “In fact, I’m actually surprised at how much we’re alike. I like your friends, Draco,” he said quietly. “I like you.”

“If we’re alike, it’s because you’re more like me than I would have ever dreamed possible.”

Harry had the grace to blush.

“Who would have known?” Draco teased. “Harry Potter, a Slytherin in Gryffindor robes.”

“Well, you’re more Gryffindor than you’ll ever admit.” Harry touched his lower lip gently. “But before you get all pouty,” he said, cutting off Draco’s enraged sputter before it even began, “keep in mind that _I’m_ a Gryffindor and so are _most_ of the most important people in my life.”

“Hmph...” Draco wriggled his hips and reached up to push Harry’s shirt off his shoulders. “If you’re just going to be insulting, I can think of about twenty other uses for your mouth.”

Harry’s eyes widened, even as he shrugged out of his shirt and lifted up to give Draco access to his belt. “Twenty?”

Draco nodded solemnly as he unclasped the buckle, opened Harry’s fly, and closed his hand around Harry's scorching flesh. “At least twenty.”

 

Making love to Harry Potter as Draco Malfoy was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever done. At every moment he was aware of those too green eyes watching, devouring his every movement, his every expression, and his every fragment of emotion that revealed secrets that Draco had hoped he would take to the grave.

In the hours that Harry molded his skin with trembling hands that alternately caressed and bruised, he also peeled away the hard crusty layers of Draco’s soul until Draco was sure that there was nothing left to see –nothing, that is, but the transparent husk of the person he’d always pretended to be.

“I love you,” Harry murmured into his shoulder blade, his skin already slick with sweat. With the consideration of someone who knows their own strength, Harry opened Draco's body with the same careful assurance that he’d used to open Draco’s heart.

Not moving his mouth away from Draco’s flesh, Harry murmured a lubrication spell, then traced Draco’s spine down to the crack of his ass with a steady hand. “May I?” he whispered as his tongue echoed the path that his finger had just made. “I remember the way you taste. I couldn't get it out of my head.” He swiped his tongue across the small of Draco’s back, starting a cascade of bumps that ran from Draco’s hips all the way down to his toes. “If I’d made love to you without knowing...” Harry spread Draco’s cheeks and touched his tongue to his most intimate place. “...I swear I would have known it was you.”

Unable to find any words, Draco reached back and touched Harry’s jaw, his fingers finding purchase in the hollows at the base of his throat.

“I am so sorry.” Harry whispered, dipping his tongue down, pushing it into Draco’s body, and then lapping gently. “I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Draco.”

“Harry?” he whispered, not caring that his face was wet. “Make love to me.”

“Always to you,” Harry promised.

Draco flinched as Harry’s tongue was replaced by one finger, than another.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked, his voice gruff.

“Yes,” Draco pushed himself on his knees, and reached for Harry’s hand. He wrapped Harry’s fingers around his own erection, already wet with pre-ejaculate. “Take me Harry, now!” He knew he was begging, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “Make me yours.”

Harry bit down on Draco’s shoulder at the same time he pushed in with one single thrust. Although it was uncomfortable at first, on the third stroke he hit the prostate and then everything changed. As Draco's mind separated from his body, he felt his consciousness floating amidst flashing lights that literally exploded behind his eyes.

Harry’s hand stroked him from root to tip in perfect counterpoint with each thrust of his hips. Every time his finger tips squeezed Draco's glans, Harry slammed into that spot that stole Draco's breath and caused his heart to beat so hard that he thought it would burst right out of his chest.

One of them was murmuring silly nonsense words and making promises about forever, but Draco wasn't sure if was him or Harry. And when Harry finally came, his body jerking in short shuddering gasps, Draco was quick to follow. Dashing the tears away from his eyes, Draco realized that he was actually glad that he hadn’t seen Harry’s face when he came, because, truth be told, he wasn't sure that he would have survived it.

“I love you, Harry,” he said finally, quietly, as Harry rolled him over and laid a tender kiss on the pale skin of his left forearm.

“I hope so.” Harry met his gaze unblinkingly. “I certainly hope so.”


	10. Chapter 10

Draco woke suddenly, his arm tightening reflexively around the warm body next to him. Harry Potter was in his bed; he could feel his own body heating just at the thought of it.

Several times during the night they’d woken and made love again –the first time had just been the gentle rubbing of two sleepy bodies that ended in surprisingly shy kisses and quiet murmurs before they both slipped back into dreams. The second time, he’d woken to find himself in Harry’s mouth, already half hard; it hadn’t taken long. The third time, less than two hours after the second, Harry’d woken him up again and fucked him, hard. Afterwards, Harry had held him close, his arms wrapped around him so tightly he could scarcely breathe –almost as if he were afraid Draco would disappear.

But Draco wasn’t going anywhere.

Laying in the shadowy darkness of his room, Draco thought about the deal that he’d made with Dumbledore some six months back; amnesty in exchange for non-participation. The old fool had actually offered him sanctuary without requiring that he take a stand. Something told him that his involvement with Harry –he was assuming that they were involved—would force his hand far sooner than he’d planned. Hell, he hadn’t even told Panse or Blaise what his intentions were.

Not that he’d told them anything. Not about anything that mattered. He thought about the fact that Harry had had the backing of his house this entire this time.... And what had Draco had –other than a lot of grief: a cocktail of overly direct questions and veiled innuendo? He snuggled closer, wondering if he and Harry could ever truly be friends.

‘I love you, Harry.’

‘I hope so.’ 

Harry began to stir and Draco pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“What time is it?” Harry muttered, pressing his ass against Draco’s morning erection.

“Time to get up.”

“Feels like you’re already up.”

“Ass.”

“Wanker.” Harry rolled over. He met Draco’s eyes evenly, then blinked, a blush stealing over his sleep softened features. “Good morning.”

“Better night,” Draco remarked, leaning forward for a kiss.

Minutes later, sighed, his breath tickling Draco’s lips. “I slept like the dead.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Harry grinned, but it somehow didn’t meet his eyes. “You have no idea.”

Draco frowned, suddenly all too aware of how much he didn’t know about the person next to him. “Then tell me,” he said, overcome suddenly with a sense of jealousy that he hadn’t experienced since first year, when Harry’d chosen Weasley over him.

Harry shook his head. “You really don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Just know that I could get used to this,” Harry whispered, leaning forward and cradling his forehead against Draco’s shoulder.

“What’s stopping you?”

Harry tilted his head back, catching Draco’s gaze with his fathomless emerald eyes. “What are your plans today?”

Draco opened his mouth, but then covered his silence by dropping down for a quick kiss. “What do you mean?”

“Today.” Harry sucked Draco’s bottom lip into his mouth, causing the room to shrink around them. “What are you doing today?”

“Uhm...” Draco shifted, sliding his knee between Harry’s thighs and drawing close. “I guess that depends on what you’re doing today.”

Harry bit his lip, then leaned forward for yet another brush of lips.

‘You’re not the only one who could get used to his.’ Draco deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding over Harry’s in a bold caress.

“I, uh....uhm....” 

“What was that?” He pulled back and met Harry’s eyes. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Harry blushed. “I’m leading a, uh...” He licked his lips and looked away. “...a thing this afternoon.”

“A thing?” Draco asked, knowing full well that the D.A. was meeting today. Just because he wasn’t on the list, didn’t mean that he was stupid.

“We –well,” Harry stammered. “It’s more like a meeting.”

Draco glanced over to the clock –it was half past one; obviously Harry hadn’t realized that there were no windows in the dungeon and, therefore, that light wasn’t indicative of time. “Harry...” He stroked Harry’s hair out of his eyes. “...do you know what time it is?”

Harry shook his head --he was adorable.

“8:00...” Harry cocked his head to one side. “...ish?”

“Try 1:50.”

Harry sat up. “In the afternoon?”

Draco pulled away and nodded.

“Oh shit!” Harry scrambled out of bed, flashing a goodly portion of tanned skin, marred by a flash of white.

Draco laughed, pulling the blanket back over his naked lap. “So what time is this meeting of yours?”

“Two,” Harry answered tersely, pulling on his jeans. Leaving the belt undone, he reached for his shirt. “You –you can come,” he offered, “if –if you want, I mean, that is if you’re not busy.”

Draco frowned. “That’s okay,” he deferred, not liking Harry’s hesitant tone. 

“Well...” Harry sat down on the bed holding his shoe. “So what are your plans today, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Draco burrowed back down in the pillow. “I’ve been working on a project with Severus....” He purposely left it hanging, just in case....

“Okay.” Harry finished tying his shoestrings. Straightening, he turned, then leaned across and kissed Draco’s nose. “I had a great time last night.”

Draco’s stomach clenched. “So, what time will you be done?”

Harry squinted. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure.” He kissed Draco again, his fingers grazing Draco’s forearm. “Well, I ho –I hope you have fun with Snape.”

Draco snatched his arm away, unaccountably irritated. ‘Just ask me, for fuck’s sake!’

With another quick kiss, this one landing somewhere south of Draco’s temple, Harry stood to go. “So, I’ll see you later?”

Draco’s mouth dropped open, but he closed it without saying a word.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Harry asked, his brow furrowed.

“Of course I am...” He wrapped his arms tightly around his center. “...you run along and do whatever it is you do at this thing of yours.”

Harry frowned. “You didn’t answer me.”

Draco cast him a level stare. “I said I was fine.”

“If I’d see you later?” Harry corrected, shifting from one foot to the other.

‘What the fuck do you think?’ Kicking himself for thinking that last night had made a difference, Draco forced himself to smile. “I’ll check my schedule and have Blaise get back with you.”

Harry’s frowned deepened. “Dra—”

“Run along, Harry...” He made a dismissive gesture and buried his face in the pillow. “Some of us need our beauty sleep.”

“But –but,” Harry stammered, “I thought you were working with Snape?”

“Goodbye, Harry,” Draco dismissed, his eyes stinging. He didn’t bother wiping them until he was sure he was alone.

 

Fifteen minutes hadn’t passed before the door flew open, the heavy oak crashing against stone. 

“You’re still in bed, you lazy tart?” Blaise bounced heavily on the mattress. “Come on, Draco, the meeting starts in two minutes.”

Draco rolled over and looked at his friend, who looked entirely too happy to have spent the night alone. “I’m not going.”

Blaise’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean you’re not going?”

“He didn’t ask me to come –hell, if it weren’t for you and Pansy, I wouldn’t even know that there was a meeting.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Blaise lay down, resting his head on Draco’s abdomen. 

“Oh, he told me that there was a meeting –but that’s all he said. It could be a meeting the the wizard chapter of the Audubon Society for all I know!”

“Did you ask?”

“Of course, I asked, you wanker.” Draco gave his hair a hard tug. “But he obviously doesn’t trust me to know, either that or he’s embarrassed about last night.”

Blaise looked surprised. “How do you figure?”

‘What other reason would he have? He told me his had this ‘thing’ he had to do. He didn’t even mention that it was a meeting until I asked.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust you,” Blaise pointed out evenly. “And he certainly didn’t look embarrassed last night when he was undressing you on the dance floor.”

Draco snorted. “Let’s just say that it seems that our illustrious hero may have found his courage in his cups.”

Blaise sat up and turned to meet his eyes. “That doesn’t sound like Harry.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco pulled himself up until his back was against the headboard. “And you know him so well, do you?”

“No,” Blaise admitted, “but I do know you well enough.”

“And what’s what supposed to mean?”

“You’re scared, Draco. Just because he didn’t ask you to come doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want you to or that he’s ashamed of you.”

“Right.”

“Have you ever thought about the fact that he may be scared? That he may be worried about what it would mean to actually ask and have you say ‘no’?”

Draco didn’t respond.

“Did he say he’d see you later?”

He nodded.

“Merlin, Dray, what does it tell you that he doesn’t care if you go or not –that even if you don’t go, he’s not fussed?”

“What are you suggesting, Blaise?”

“I’m suggesting that he seems to be in love with you, you prat –not that you’ve done anything to deserve it. You, who –just in case you haven’t looked in the mirror—just happen to be Lucius Malfoy’s only son, who just happens to be—”

“Do you have a point, Blaise?”

“Only that you’re the closest thing to a Deatheater this school has and Harry-I’m-Number-One-on-the-Dark-Lord’s-Hit-List pretty much came out to the entire 6th and 7th year student body with his tongue down your throat—”

“And...” Draco smirked. “...will you be getting to it anytime soon, or do I have time to catch a nap?”

“He can’t very well ask you, because if you said ‘no,’ then where the hell would he be? Because for all intents and purposes, he has absolutely no reason to believe that you’d actually say yes!”

“So you think he said nothing at all?”

Blaise looked at him like he often found himself looking at Crabbe. He didn’t like it.

“You –you can come, if –if you want, I mean, that is, if you’re not busy.”

“Well, what are you doing here?” Draco demanded, swinging his legs out from beneath the sheets and reaching for his slacks. “I would have thought you’d already have gotten the t-shirt?”

Blaise rolled off the bed and stuck out his tongue. “Like we’d go if you didn’t.”

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”

Blaise merely folded his arms across his chest and looked down his nose.

Draco couldn’t help feel a flush of warmth at the unexpected show of solidarity. “Well, come on, then...” He pulled a fresh shirt out of the wardrobe on his way out. “...there’s nothing wrong with being fashionably late....” 

 

Harry’s face glowed as Draco led the Slytherins into the Room of Requirement less than ten minutes later –his smile, at first, incredulous, then, suddenly shy.

“Uh, I...uh,” he stuttered, even as the room fell silent around them.

Draco stepped up until they were practically nose to nose. “I hope we’re not too late.”

Harry shook his head. “No, uh, it’s never too late.”

“Never’s an awfully long time, Potter,” he pointed out, unable to prevent himself from sneering whenever he used Harry’s surname, as had become his habit.

“Whatever, Malfoy,” Harry returned, obviously trying for nonchalance and failing miserably.

Draco’s heart swelled. 

“So, Malfoy...” Harry glanced away. “...why don’t you go over and partner with Neville? I’ll put Susan with Pansy. Goyle can work with Seamus, Zabini –Daphne.” He took a quick look around. “Millicent, why don’t you work with Hermione, which will put Justin with Ron. Crabbe, why don’t you work with Dean and Smith?” 

As everyone got into their new formations, Harry walked Draco over to Longbottom; stepping behind him, Harry laid his hands on Draco’s shoulders, giving them a little rub. “I’m glad you’re here.”

As means of responding, Draco tilted his head until their cheeks just touched. 

Just as Harry was walking away, a flurry of activity broke out across the room.

“Ex--!” Finnigan started

“Expe--!” Granger began.

“Expellieramus!” Weasley finished and three bursts of red hit Smith, sending him flying. His wand, that just seconds before had been pointing at Draco’s back, clattered harmlessly to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Harry shouted, rushing to Smith’s side. “What happened? Ron?”

Weasley turned beet red and his mouth twisted into an unflattering bow. “Sorry, Harry,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Hermione?!” Harry lifted Smith up and was checking him for injuries.

Granger looked down at her feet and slid her wand into her jeans pocket. “Sorry, Harry.”

“Seamus?”

“He was about to hex Draco!” Finnigan shouted before looking over at Granger and Weasley with a quick grin. “Never thought I’d see the day the two of you would do anything like that!”

Weasley kicked the ground, looking miserable. “Me neither...” 

Harry’s hand went lax and Smith hit the floor. “Get him out of here.”

 

After Smith was taken to the infirmary, the rest of the meeting went smoothly enough. Although none of the Slytherins had ever attended before, they seemed to have a natural talent with anything dark.

In addition, however, Draco had to admit that Harry was pretty good. In fact, after just an hour or so of non-stop hexing and countering, he was no longer surprised at Longbottom’s acumen with a wand.

At five ‘til four, Harry called it quits, shooing everyone out efficiently. Without missing a beat, he grabbed Draco’s arm just as the Slytherins hit the door.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he murmured into Draco’s hair.

“I didn’t think I was invited.”

“You don’t really believe that do you?”

Draco took one step closer and motioned for Blaise and Pansy to go on without him. He made note of the fact that Blaise had his hand on Pansy’s hip in a decidedly familiar gesture.

“So, what are you doing now?” Harry asked out, recalling his attention.

Draco shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Harry took one step forward and dropped a kiss on Draco’s forehead. “I thought maybe we could go flying.”

“Sure.” Draco grinned –flying with Harry instead of against him. It was tempting. “I’d have to go get my broom though. It’s in my room.”

“Well...” Harry reached out and clasped his wrist. “I was thinking we could take the Firebolt.”

Draco opened his mouth, unable to find the words.

“We don’t have to,” Harry assured. “I just thought...” he trailed off, pink tingeing his cheeks. “Forget it.”

“No.” Draco’s allowed himself to smile, the thought of flying with Harry, his chest pressed against his back, cheek to his shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. “No, I think that sounds –it’s just that I hadn’t really thought about you taking me flying.”

“Really?” Harry smiled wickedly, taking his hand and leading him towards the stairwell. “That’s good, because, to be honest, I’d rather hoped that you’d be the one taking me.”

FIN


End file.
